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**Can’t you take my parole? Can’t you leave me alone until 
they come from England? ” FRONTISPIECE. See page 300. 


By E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM 


AUTHOR OF 
**The Kingdom of The Blind,’® ‘‘The Hillman,’* 
*"Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo,’’ 
*‘The Double Traitor,’’ ete. 


A. L. BURT COMPANY 


Publishers New York 


Published by arrangement with LIrrLE Brown & Company 


ee 


Copyright, 1917, 
By Lirrite, Browyx, anp Company, 


All rights reserved 


Published, June, 1917 
Reprinted, November, 1917 


BOOK I 


CHAPTER I 


With a somewhat prolonged grinding of the brakes 
and an unnecessary amount of fuss in the way of 
letting off steam, the afternoon train from London 
came to a standstill in the station at Detton Magna. 
An elderly porter, putting on his coat as he came, 
issued, with the dogged aid of one bound by custom 
to perform a hopeless mission, from the small, red- 
brick lamp room. The station master, occupying a 
position of vantage in front of the shed which en- 
closed the booking office, looked up and down the 
lifeless row of closed and streaming windows, with an 
expectancy dulled by daily disappointment, for the 
passengers who seldom alighted. On this occasion no 
records were broken. A solitary young man stepped 
out on to the wet and flinty platform, handed over 
the half of a third-class return ticket from London, 
passed through the two open doors and commenced 
to climb the long ascent which led into the town. 

He wore no overcoat, and for protection against 
the inclement weather he was able only to turn up 
the collar of his well-worn blue serge coat. The 
damp of a ceaselessly wet day seemed to have laid 
its cheerless pall upon the whole exceedingly ugly 
landscape. The hedges, blackened with smuts from 
the colliery on the other side of the slope, were drip- 
ping also with raindrops. The road, flinty and light 


4 THE CINEMA MURDER 


grey in colour, was greasy with repellent-looking 
mud — there were puddles even in the asphalt-cov- 
ered pathway which he trod. On either side of him 
stretched the shrunken, unpastoral-looking fields 
of an industrial neighbourhood. The town-village 
which stretched up the hillside before him presented 
scarcely a single redeeming feature. The small, grey 
stone houses, hard and unadorned, were interrupted 
at intervals by rows of brand-new, red-brick cottages. 
In the background were the tall chimneys of several 
factories ; on the left, a colliery shaft raised its smoke- 
blackened finger to the lowering clouds. 

After his first glance around at these familiar and 
unlovely objects, Philip Romilly walked with his 
head a little thrown back, his eyes lifted as though 
with intent to the melancholy and watery skies. He 
was a young man well above medium height, slim, 
almost inclined to be angular, yet with a good car- 
riage notwithstanding a stoop which seemed more the 
result of an habitual depression than occasioned by 
any physical weakness. His features were large, his 
mouth querulous, a little discontented, his eyes filled 
with the light of a silent and rebellious bitterness 
which seemed, somehow, to have found a more or less 
permanent abode in his face. His clothes, although 
they were neat, had seen better days. He was un- 
gloved, and he carried under his arm a small parcel, 
which appeared to contain a book, carefully done up 
in brown paper. 

As he reached the outskirts of the village he slack- 
ened his pace. Standing a little way back from the 
road, from which they were separated by an ugly, 
gravelled playground, were the familiar school build- 


THE CINEMA MURDER 5 


ings, with the usual inscription carved in stone above 
the door. He laid his hand upon the wooden gate 
and paused. From inside he could catch the drone 
of children’s voices. He glanced at his watch. It 
was barely twenty minutes past four. For a mo- 
ment he hesitated. ‘Then he strolled on, and, turn- 
ing at the gate of an adjoining cottage, the nearest 
to the schools of a little unlovely row, he tried the 
’ latch, found it yield to his touch, and stepped in- 
side. He closed the door behind him and turned, 
with a little weary sigh of content, towards a large 
easy-chair drawn up in front of the fire. For a 
single moment he seemed about to throw himself into 
its depths — his long fingers, indeed, a little blue with 
the cold, seemed already on their way towards the 
genial warmth of the flames. ‘Then he stopped short. 
He stood perfectly still in an attitude of arrested 
motion, his eyes, wonderingly at first, and then with 
a strange, unanalysable expression, seeming to em- 
bark upon a lengthened, a scrupulous, an almost hor- 
rified estimate of his surroundings. 

To the ordinary observer there would have been 
nothing remarkable in the appearance of the little 
room, save its entirely unexpected air of luxury and 
refinement. ‘There was a small Chippendale side- 
board against the wall, a round, gate-legged table 
on which stood a blue china bowl filled with pink 
roses, a couple of luxurious easy-chairs, some old 
prints upon the wall. On the sideboard was a 
basket, as yet unpacked, filled with hothouse fruit, 
and on a low settee by the side of one of the easy- 
chairs were a little pile of reviews, several volumes 
of poetry, and a couple of library books. In the 


6 THE CINEMA MURDER 


centre of the mantelpiece was a photograph, the 
photograph of a man a little older, perhaps, than 
this newly-arrived visitor, with rounder face, dressed 
in country tweeds, a flower in his buttonhole, the 
picture of a prosperous man, yet with a curious, al- 
most disturbing likeness to the pale, over-nervous, 
loose-framed youth whose eye had been attracted by 
its presence, and who was gazing at it, spellbound. 

* Douglas!” he muttered. ‘ Douglas! ” 

He flung his hat upon the table and for a moment 
his hand rested upon his forehead. He was con- 
fronted with a mystery which baffled him, a mystery 
whose sinister possibilities were slowly framing them- 
selves in his mind. While he stood there he was sud- 
denly conscious of the sound of the opening gate, 
brisk footsteps up the tiled way, the soft swirl of a 
woman’s skirt. The latch was raised, the door opened 
and closed. 'The newcomer stood upon the threshold, 

gazing at him. 
_ © Philip!” she exclaimed. ‘ Why, Philip!” 

There was a curious change in the girl’s tone, 
from almost glad welcome to a note of abrupt fear in 
that last pronouncement of his name. She stood 
looking at him, the victim, apparently, of so many 
emotions that there was nothing definite to be drawn 
either from her tone or expression. She was a young 
woman of medium height and slim, delicate figure, 
attractive, with large, discontented mouth, full, 
clear eyes and a wealth of dark brown hair. She 
was very simply dressed and yet in a manner which 
scarcely suggested the school-teacher. ‘To the man 
who confronted her, his left hand gripping the man- 
telpiece, his eyes filled with a flaming jealousy, there 


THE CINEMA MURDER 7 


was something entirely new in the hang of her well- 
cut skirt, the soft colouring of her low-necked blouse, 
the greater animation of her piquant face with its 
somewhat dazzling complexion. His hand flashed 
out towards her as he asked his question, 

** What does it mean, Beatrice? ” 

She showed signs of recovering herself. With a 
little shrug of the shoulders she turned towards the 
door which led into an inner room. 

“Let me get you some tea, Philip,” she begged. 
** You look so cold and wet.” 

** Stay here, please,” he insisted. 

She paused reluctantly. There was a curious 
lack of: anything peremptory in his manner, yet 
somehow, although she would have given the world 
to have passed for a few moments into the shelter of 
the little kitchen beyond, she was impelled to do as 
he bade her. 

“Don’t be silly, Philip,” she said petulantly. 
“You know you want some tea, and so do I. Sit - 
down, please, and make yourself comfortable. Why 
didn’t you let me know you were coming? ” 7 

“Perhaps it would have been better,” he agreed 
quietly. ‘“‘ However, since I am here, answer my 
question.” 

She drew a little breath. After all, although she 
was lacking in any real strength of character, she 
was filled with a certain compensatory doygedness. 
His challenge was there to be faced. There was no 
way out of it. She would have lied willingly enough 
but for the sheer futility of falsehood. She com- 
menced the task of bracing herself for the struggle. 

“You had better,” she said, “ frame your question 


8 THE CINEMA MURDER 


a little more exactly. I will then try to answer it.” 
He was stung by her altered demeanour, embar- 
rassed by an avalanche of words. A hundred ques- 
tions were burning upon his lips. It was by a great 
effort of self-control that he remained coherent. 

“The last time I visited you,” he began, ‘* was 
three months ago. Your cottage then was furnished 
as one would expect it to be furnished. You had 
a deal dresser, a deal table, one rather hard easy- 
chair and a very old wicker one. You had, if I re- 
member rightly, a strip of linoleum upon the floor, 
and a single rug. Your flowers were from the 
hedges and your fruit from the one apple tree in the 
garden behind. Your clothes — am I[ mistaken about 
your clothes or are you dressed more expensively? ” 

“IT am dressed more expensively,” she admitted. 

*¢ You and I both know the value of these things,” 
he went on, with a little sweep of the hand. ‘“ We 
know the value of them because we were once ac- 
customed to them, because we have both since ex- 
perienced the passionate craving for them or the 
things they represent. Chippendale furniture, a 
Turkey carpet, roses in January, hothouse fruit, 
Bartolozzi prints, do not march with an income of 
fifty pounds a year.” 

“They do not,” she assented equably. “ All the 
things which you see here and which you have men- 
tioned, are presents.” 

His forefinger shot out with a sudden vigour to- 
wards the photograph. 

“From him?” 

“From Douglas,” she admitted, “from your 
cousin.” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 9 


He took the photograph into his hand, looked at 
it for a moment, and dashed it into the grate. The 
glass of the frame was shivered into a hundred pieces. 
The girl only shrugged her shoulders. She was hold- 
ing herself in reserve. As for him, his eyes were hot, 
there was a dry choking in his throat. He had 
passed through many weary and depressed days, 
struggling always against the grinding monotony of 
life and his surroundings. Now for the first time he 
felt that there was something worse. 

* ‘What does it mean? ” he asked once more. 

She seemed almost to dilate as she answered him. 
Her feet were firmly planted upon the ground. 
There was a new look in her face, a look of decision. 
She was more or less a coward but she felt no fear. 
She even leaned a little towards him and looked him 
in the face. 

** It means,” she pronounced slowly, “ exactly what 
it seems to mean.” 

The words conveyed horrible things to him, but 
he was spechless. He could only wait. 

“You and I, Philip,” she continued, “ have been — 
well, I suppose we should call it engaged — for three 
years. During those three years I have earned, by 
disgusting and wearisome labour, just enough to 
keep me alive in a world which has had nothing to 
offer me but ugliness and discomfort and misery. 
You, as you admitted last time we met, have done no 
better. You have lived in a garret and gone often 
hungry to bed. For three years this has been going 
on. All that time I have waited for you to bring 
something human, something reasonable, something 
warm into my life, and you have failed. I have 


10 THE CINEMA MURDER 


passed, in those three years, from twenty-three to 
twenty-six. In three more I shall be in my thirtieth 
year — that is to say, the best time of my life will 
have passed. You see, I have been thinking, and I 
have had enough.” 

He stood quite dumb. The girl’s newly-revealed 
personality seemed to fill the room. He felt crowded 
out. She was, at that stage, absolutely mistress of 
the situation. . . . She passed him carelessly by, 
flung herself into the easy-chair and crossed her 
legs. As though he were looking at some person in 
another world, he realized that she was wearing shoes 
of shapely cut, and silk stockings. 

“ Our engagement,” she went on, “ was at first the 
dearest thing in life to me. It could have been the 
most wonderful thing in life. Iam only an ordinary 
person with an ordinary character, but I have the 
capacity to love unselfishly, and I am at heart as 
faithful and as good as any other woman. But 
there is my birthright. I have had three years of 
sordid and utterly miserable life, teaching squalid, 
dirty, unlovable children things they had much bet- 
ter not know. I have lived here, here in Detton 
Magna, among the smuts and the mists, where the 
flowers seem withered and even the meadows are 
stony, where the people are hard and coarse as their 
ugly houses, where virtue is ugly, and vice is ugly, 
and living is ugly, and death is fearsome. And now 
you see what I have chosen — not in a moment’s folly, 
mind, because I am not foolish; not in a moment’s 
passion, either, because until now the only real feel- 
ing I have had in life was for you. But I have 
chosen, and I hold to my choice.” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 11 


“ They won’t let you stay here,’’ he muttered. 

“They needn’t,” she answered calmly. ‘“ There 
are other ways in which I can at least earn as much 
as the miserable pittance doled out to me here. I 
have avoided even considering them before. Shall I 
tell you why? Because I didn’t want to face the 
temptation they might bring with them. I always 
knew what would happen if escape became hopeless. 
It’s the ugliness I can’t stand — the ugliness of cheap 
food, cheap clothes, uncomfortable furniture, coarse 
voices, coarse friends if I would have them. How 
do you suppose I have lived here these last three 
years, a teacher in the national schools? Look up 
and down this long, dreary street, at the names 
above the shops, at the villas in which the trades- 
people live, and ask yourself where my friends were 
to come from? The clergyman, perhaps? He is 
over seventy, a widower, and he never comes near 
the place. Why, I’d have been content to have been 
patronized if there had been anyone here to do it, 
who wore the right sort of clothes and said the right 
sort of thing in the right tone. But the others — 
well, that’s done with.” 

He remained curiously dumb. His eyes were fixed 
upon the fragments of the photograph in the grate. 
In a corner of the room an old-fashioned clock ticked 
wheezily. A lump of coal fell out on the hearth, 
which she replaced mechanically with her foot. His 
silence seemed to irritate and perplex her. She 
looked away from him, drew her chair a little closer 
to the fire, and sat with her head resting upon her 
hands. Her tone had become almost meditative. 

“1 knew that this would come one day,” she went 


12 THE CINEMA MURDER | 


on. ‘“‘ Why don’t you speak and get it over? Are 
you waiting to clothe your phrases? Are you afraid 
of the naked words? I’m not. Let me hear them. 
Don’t be more melodramatic than you can help be- 
cause, as you know, I am cursed with a sense of 
humour, but don’t stand there saying nothing.” 

He raised his eyes and looked at her in silence, 
an alternative which she found it hard to endure. 
Then, after a moment’s shivering recoil into her 
chair, she sprang to her feet. 

** Listen,” she cried passionately, “I don’t care 
what you think! I tell you that if you were really 
a man, if you had a man’s heart in your body, you’d 
have sinned yourself before now — robbed some one, 
murdered them, torn the things that make life from 
the fate that refuses to give them. What is it they 
pay you,” she went on contemptuously, “ at that 
miserable art school of yours? Sixty pounds a year! 
How much do you get to eat and drink out of that? 
What sort of clothes have you to wear? Are you 
content? Yet even you have been better off than 
I. You have always your chance. Your play may 
be accepted or your stories published. I haven’t 
even had that forlorn hope. But even you, Philip, 
may wait too long. There are too many laws, now- 
adays, for life to be lived naturally. If I were a 
man, a man like you, I’d break them.” 

Her taunts apparently moved him no more than 
the inner tragedy which her words had revealed. He 
did not for one moment give any sign of abandoning 
the unnatural calm which seemed to have descended 
upon him. He took up his hat from the table, and 
thrust the little brown paper parcel which he had 


THE CINEMA MURDER 13 


been carrying, into his pocket. His eyes for a single 
moment met the challenge of hers, and again she was 
conscious of some nameless, inexplicable fear. 

“Perhaps,” he said, as he turned away, “I may 
do that.” 

His hand was upon the latch before she realized 
that he was actually going. She sprang to her feet. 
Abuse, scorn, upbraidings, even violence — she had 
been prepared for all of these. There was something 
about this self-restraint, however, this strange, 
brooding silence, which terrified her more than any- 
thing she could have imagined. 

“Philip!” she shrieked. ‘ You’re not going? 
You’re not going like this? You haven’t said any- 
thing! ” 

He closed the door with firm fingers. Her knees 
trembled, she was conscious of an unexpected weak- 
ness. She abandoned her first intention of following 
him, and stood before the window, holding tightly to 
the sash. He had reached the gate now and paused 
for a moment, looking up the long, windy street. 
Then he crossed to the other side of the road, stepped 
over a stile and disappeared, walking without haste, 
with firm footsteps, along a cindered path which 
bordered the sluggish-looking canal. He had come 
and gone, and she knew what fear was! 


TS¥5 


CHAPTER II 


The railway station at Detton Magna presented, 
if possible, an even more dreary appearance than 
earlier in the day, as the time drew near that night 
for the departure of the last train northwards. Its 
_long strip of flinty platform was utterly deserted. 
Around the three flickering gas-lamps the drizzling 
rain fell continuously. The weary porter came 
yawning out of his lamp room into the booking of- 
fice, where the station master sat alone, his chair 
turned away from the open wicket window to the 
smouldering embers of the smoky fire. 

“No passengers to-night, seemingly,” the latter 
remarked to his subordinate. 

** Not a sign of one,” was the reply. “ That young 
chap who came down from London on a one-day re- 
turn excursion, hasn’t gone back, either. That'll 
do his ticket in.” 

The outside door was suddenly opened and closed. 
The sound of footsteps approaching the ticket win- 
dow was heard. A long, white hand was thrust 
through the aperture, a voice was heard from the 
invisible outside. 

“ Third to Detton Junction, please.” 

The station-master took the ticket from a little 
rack, received the exact sum he demanded, swept 
it into the till, and resumed his place before the fire. 
The porter, with the lamp in his hand, lounged out 


THE CINEMA MURDER 15 


into the booking-hall. The prospective passenger, 
however, was nowhere in sight. He looked back into 
the office. 

* Was that Jim Spender going up to see his bar- 
maid again? ” he asked his superior. 

The station master yawned drowsily. 

*“ Didn’t notice,” he answered. ‘ What an old 
woman you’re getting, George! Want to know 
everybody’s business, don’t you? ” 

The porter withdrew, a little huffed. When, a 
few minutes later, the train drew in, he even avoided 
ostentatiously a journey to the far end of the plat- 
form to open the door for the solitary passenger 
who was standing there. He passed up the train 
and slammed the door without even glancing in at the 
window. ‘Then he stood and watched the red lights 
disappear. 

“Was it Jim? ” the station master asked him, on 
their way out. 

** Didn’t notice,” his subordinate replied, a little 
curtly. ‘ Maybe it was and maybe it wasn’t. Good 
night! ” 


Philip Romilly sat back in the corner of his empty 
third-class carriage, peering out of the window, in 
which he could see only the reflection of the feeble 
gas-lamp. There was no doubt about it, however — 
they were moving. The first stage of his journey 
had commenced. The blessed sense of motion, after 
so long waiting, at first soothed and then exhilarated 
him. In a few moments he became restless. He let 
down the rain-blurred window and leaned out. The 
cool dampness of the night was immensely refreshing, 


16 THE CINEMA MURDER 


the rain softened his hot cheeks. He sat there, 
peering away into the shadows, struggling for the 
sight of definite objects — a tree, a house, the outline 
of a field— anything to keep the other thoughts 
away, the thoughts that came sometimes like the 
aftermath of a grisly, unrealisable nightmare. ‘Then 
he felt chilly, drew up the window, thrust his hands 
into his pockets from which he drew out a handsome 
cigarette case, struck a match, and smoked with vivid 
appreciation of the quality of the tobacco, examined 
the crest on the case as he put it away, and finally 
patted with surreptitious eagerness the flat morocco 
letter case in his inside pocket. 

At the Junction, he made his way into the re- 
freshment room and ordered. a long whisky and soda, 
which he drank in a couple of gulps. Then he has- 
tened to the booking office and took a first-class ticket 
to Liverpool, and a few minutes later secured a seat 
in the long, north-bound express which came gliding 
up to the side of the platform. He spent some time 
in the lavatory, washing, arranging his hair, straight- 
ening his tie, after which he made his way into the 
elaborate dining-car and found a comfortable corner 
seat. The luxury of his surroundings soothed his 
jagged nerves. The car was comfortably warmed, 
the electric light upon his table was softly shaded. 
The steward who waited upon him was swift-footed 
and obsequious, and seemed entirely oblivious of 
Philip’s shabby, half-soaked clothes. He ordered 
champagne a little vaguely, and the wine ran through 
his veins with a curious potency. He ate and drank 
now and then mechanically, now and then with the 
keenest appetite. Afterwards he smoked a cigar, 


THE CINEMA MURDER 17 


drank coffee, and sipped a liqueur with the apprecia- 
tion of a connoisseur. A fellow passenger passed 
him an evening’ paper, which he glanced through with 
apparent interest. Before he reached his journey’s 
end he had ordered and drunk another liqueur. He 
tipped the steward handsomely. It was the first well- 
cooked meal which he had eaten for many months. 

Arrived at Liverpool, he entered a cab and drove 
to the Adelphi Hotel. He made his way at once to 
the office. His clothes were dry now and the rest 
and warmth had given him more confidence. 

* You have a room engaged for me, I think,” he 
said, “ Mr. Douglas Romilly. I sent some luggage 
on.” 

The man merely glanced at him and handed him a 
ticket. 

“Number sixty-seven, sir, on the second floor,” 
he announced. 

A porter conducted him up-stairs into a large, 
well-furnished bedroom. A fire was blazing in the 
grate; a dressing-case, a steamer trunk and a hatbox 
were set out at the foot of the bedstead. 

“The heavier luggage, labelled for the hold, sir,” 
the man told him, “ is down-stairs, and will go direct 
to the steamer to-morrow morning. That was ac- 
cording to your instructions, I believe.” 

“ Quite right,” Philip assented. ‘ What time does 
the boat sail? ” 

“ Three o’clock, sir.” 

Philip frowned. This was his first disappoint- 
ment. He had fancied himself on board early in the 
day. The prospect of a long morning’s inaction 
seemed already to terrify him. 


18 THE CINEMA MURDER 


“Not till the afternoon,” he muttered. 

** Matter of tide, sir,” the man explained. “ You 
can go on board any time after eleven o’clock in the 
morning, though. Very much obliged to you, sir.” 

The porter withdrew, entirely satisfied with his 
tip. Philip Romilly locked the door after him care- 
fully. Then he drew a bunch of keys from his pocket 
and, after several attempts, opened both the steamer 
trunk and the dressing-case. He surveyed their 
carefully packed contents with a certain grim and 
fantastic amusement, handled the silver brushes, 
shook out a purple brocaded dressing-gown, laid out 
a suit of clothes for the morrow, even selected a shirt 
and put the links in it. Finally he wandered into 
the adjoining bathroom, took a hot bath, packed 
away at the bottom of the steamer trunk the clothes 
which he had been wearing, went to bed — and slept. 


CHAPTER III 


The sun was shining into his bedroom when Philip 
Romilly was awakened the next morning by a dis- 
creet tapping at the door. He sat up in bed and 
shouted “ Come in.” He had no occasion to hesitate 
fora moment. He knew perfectly well where he was, 
he remembered exactly everything that had happened. 
The knocking at the door was disquieting but he faced 
it without a tremor. The floor waiter appeared and 
bowed deferentially. 

* There is a gentleman on the telephone wishes to 
speak to you, sir,” he announced. “I have con- 
nected him with the instrument by your side.” 

“To speak with me?” Philip repeated. “ Are 
you quite sure? ” 

“Yes, sir. Mr. Douglas Romilly he asked for. 
He said that his name was Mr. Gayes, I believe.” 

The man left the room and Philip took up the 
receiver. For a moment he sat and thought. The 
situation was perplexing, in a sense ominous, yet 
it had to be faced. He held the instrument to his 
ear. 

“ Hullo? Who’s that?” he enquired. 

“That Mr. Romilly? ” was the reply, in a man’s 
pleasant voice. “ Mr. Douglas Romilly? ” 

66 Yes | 99 

“Good! I’m Gayes—Mr. Gayes of Gayes 


20 THE CINEMA MURDER 


Brothers. My people wrote me last night from 
Leicester that you would be here this morning. You 
are crossing, aren’t you, on the Elletania? ” 

Philip remained monosyllabic. 

“Yes,” he admitted cautiously. 

** Can’t you come round and see us this morning? ” 
Mr. Gayes invited. ‘“ And look here, Mr. Romilly, 
in any case { want you to lunch with me at the club. 
My car shall come round and fetch you at any time 
vou say.” 

“Sorry,” Philip replied. ‘I am very busy this 
morning, and I am engaged for lunch.” 

“Oh, come, that’s too bad,” the other protested, 
“T really want to have a chat with you on business 
matters, Mr. Romilly. Wiull you spare me half an 
hour if I come round? ” 

“Tell me exactly what it is you want?” Philip 
insisted. , 

“Oh! just the usual thing,” was the cheerful an- 
swer. ‘‘ We hear you are off to America on a buying 
tour. Our last advices don’t indicate a very easy 
market over there. I am not at all sure that we 
couldn’t do better for you here, and give you better 
terms.” 

Philip began to feel more sure of himself. The 
situation, after all, he realized, was not exactly 
alarming. 

“Very kind of you,” he said. ‘‘My arrange- 
ments are all made now, though, and I can’t interfere 
with them.” 

“Well, I’m going to bother you with a few 
quotations, anyway. See here, Ill just run round 
to see you. My car is waiting at the door 


THE CINEMA MURDER 21 


now. I won’t keep you more than a few minutes.” 

“Don’t come before twelve,” Philip begged. “TI 
shall be busy until then.” 

** At twelve o’clock precisely, then,” was the reply. 
“TI shall hope to induce you to change your mind 
about luncheon. It’s quite a long time since we had 
you at the club. Good-by!” 

Philip set down the telephone. He was still in 
his pajamas and the morning was cold, but he sud- 
denly felt a great drop of perspiration on his fore- 
head. It was the sort of thing, this, which he had 
expected — had been prepared for, in fact — but it 
was none the less, in its way, gruesome. ‘There was 
a further knock at the door, and the waiter reap- 
peared. — 

“Can I bring you any breakfast, sir?” he en- 
quired. 

** What time is it?” 

** Half-past nine, sir.” 

‘Bring me some coffee and rolls and butter,” 
Philip ordered. 

He sprang out of bed, bathed, dressed, and ate his 
breakfast. Then he lit a cigarette, repacked his 
dressing-case, and descended into the hall. He made 
his way to the hall porter’s enquiry office. 

“Tam going to pay some calls in the city,” he 
announced —“ Mr. Romilly is my name—and I 
may not be able to get back here before my boat sails. 
I am going on the Elletania. Can I have my luggage 
sent there direct? ” 

“‘ By all means, sir.” 

“Every article is properly labelled,” Philip con- 
tinued. “Those in my bedroom —number sixty- 


a6 THE CINEMA MURDER | 


seven — are for the cabin, and those you have in 
your charge are for the hold.” 

* That, will be quite all right, sir,”? the man assured 
him pocketing his liberal tip. ‘I will see to the mat- 
ter myself.” 

Philip paid his bill at the office and breathed a 
little more freely as he left the hotel. Passing a 
large, plate-glass window he stopped suddenly and 
stared at his own reflection. There was something 
unfamiliar in the hang of his well-cut clothes and 
fashionable Homburg hat. It was like the shadow 
of some one else passing — some one to whom those 
clothes belonged. ‘Then he remembered, remembered 
with a cold shiver which blanched his cheeks and 
brought a little agonised murmur to his lips. The 
moment passed, however, crushed. down, stifled as he 
had sworn that he would stifle all such memories. He 
turned in at a barber’s shop, had his hair cut, and 
yielded to the solicitations of a fluffy-haired young 
lady who was dying to go to America if only some- 
body would take her, and who was sure that he ought 
to have a manicure before his voyage. Afterwards 
he entered a call office and rang up the hotel on the 
telephone. 

“Mr. Romilly speaking,” he announced. “ Will 
you kindly tell Mr. Gayes, if he calls to see me, that 
I have been detained in the city, and shall not be 
back.” 

The man took down the message. Philip strolled 
out once more into the streets, wandering aimlessly 
about for an hour or more. By this time it was 
nearly one o’clock, and, selecting a restaurant, he en- 
tered and ordered luncheon. Once more it came over 


THE CINEMA MURDER 23 


him, as he looked around the place, that he had, after 
all, only a very imperfect hold upon his own identity. 
It seemed impossible that he, Philip Romilly, should 
be there, ordering precisely what appealed to him 
most, without thought or care of the cost. He ate 
and drank slowly and with discrimination, and when 
he left the place he felt stronger. He sought out 
a first-class tobacconist’s, bought some cigarettes, 
and enquired his way to the dock. At a few minutes 
after two, he passed up the gangway and boarded the 
great steamer. One of the little army of linen-coated 
stewards enquired the number of his room and con- 
ducted him below. 

** Anything I can do for you, sir, before your 
luggage comes on? ” the man asked civilly. 

Philip shook his head and wandered up on deck 
again, where there were already a fair number of 
passengers in evidence. He leaned over the side, 
watching the constant stream of porters bearing sup- 
plies, and the steerage passengers passing into the 
forepart of the ship. With every moment his im- 
patience grew. He looked at his watch sometimes 
half a dozen times in ten minutes, changed his posi- 
tion continually, started violently whenever he heard 
an unexpected footstep behind him. Finally he 
broke a promise he had made to himself. He bought 
newspapers, took them into a sheltered corner, and 
tore them open. Column by column he searched 
them through feverishly, running his finger down one 
side and up the next. It seemed impossible to find 
nowhere the heading he dreaded to see, to realize 
that they were entirely empty of any exciting inci- 
dent. He satisfied himself at last, however. The 


24 THE CINEMA MURDER 


disappearance of a half-starved art teacher had not 
yet blazoned out to a sympathetic world. It was 
so much to the good. . . . There was a touch upon 
his shoulder, and he felt a chill of horror. When 
he turned around, it was the steward who had con- 
ducted him below, holding out a telegram. 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. ‘“ Telegram 
just arrived for you.” 

He passed on almost at once, in search of some 
one else. Philip stood for several moments perfectly 
still, He looked at the inscription — Douglas Rom- 
ally — set his teeth and tore open the envelope: 


Understood you were returning to factory before leav- 
ing. Am posting a few final particulars to Waldorf 
Hotel, New York. Staff joins me in wishing you bon 
voyage. 


Philip felt his heart cease its pounding, felt an 
immense sense of relief. It was a wonderful thing, 
this message. It cleared up one point on which he had 
been anxious and unsettled. It was taken for grant- 
ed at the Works, then, that he had come straight to 
Liverpool. He walked up and down the deck on the 
side remote from the dock, driving this into his mind. 

Everything was wonderfully simplified. If only he 
could get across, once reach New York! Meanwhile, 
he looked at his watch again and discovered that it 
wanted but ten minutes to three. He made his way 
back down to his stateroom, which was already filled 
with his luggage. He shook out an ulster from a 
bundle of wraps, and selected a tweed cap. Already 
there was a faint touch of the sea in the river breeze, 
and he was impatient for the immeasurable open 


THE CINEMA MURDER 25 


spaces, the salt wind, the rise and fall of the great 
ship. ‘Then, as he stood on the threshold of his cabin, 
he heard voices. 

** Down in number 110, eh? ” 

“Yes, sir,” he heard his steward’s voice reply. 
“Mr. Romilly has just gone down. You’ve only a 
minute, sir, before the last call for passengers.” 

“'That’s all right,” the voice which had spoken 
to him over the telephone that morning replied. 
“Td just ih to shake hands with sth and wish him 
bon voyage.” 

Philip’s teeth came together in a little fury of 
anger. It was maddening, this, to be trapped when 
only a few minutes remained between him and safety! 
His brain worked swiftly. He took his chance of 
finding the next stateroom empty, as it happened to 
be, and stepped quickly inside. He kept his back 
to the door until the footsteps had passed. He 
heard the knock at his stateroom, stepped back into 
the corridor, and passed along a little gangway to 
the other side of the ship. He hurried up the stairs 
and into the smoking-room. The bugle was sound- 
ing now, and hoarse voices were shouting: 

“Every one for the shore! Last call for the 
shore!” 

“Give me a brandy and soda,” he begged the 
steward, who was just opening the bar. 

The man glanced at the clock and obeyed. Philip 
swallowed half of it at a gulp, then sat down with the 
tumbler in his hand. All of a sudden something dis- 
appeared from in front of one of the portholes. His 
heart gave a little jump. They were moving! He 
sprang up and hurried to the doorway. Slowly but 


26 THE CINEMA MURDER 


unmistakably they were gliding away from the dock, 
Already a lengthening line of people were waving 
their handkerchiefs and shouting farewells. Around 
them in the river little tugs were screaming, and the 
ropes from the dock had been thrown loose. Philip 
stepped to the rail, his heart growing lighter at every 
moment. His ubiquitous steward, laden with hand 
luggage, paused for a moment. 

“IT sent a gentleman down to your stateroom just 
before the steamer started, sir,” he announced, “ gen- 
tleman of the name of Gayes, who wanted to say 
good-by to you.” 

“Bad luck!” Philip answered. “I must have 
just missed him.” 

The steward turned around and pointed to the 
quay. 

“There he is, sir — elderly gentleman in a grey 
suit, and a bunch of violets in his buttonhole. He’s 
looking straight at you.” 

Philip raised his cap and waved it with enthusiasm. 
After a moment’s hesitation, the other man did the 
same. The steward collected his belongings and 
shuffled off. 

‘He picked you out, sir, all right,” he remarked 
as he disappeared in the companionway. 

Philip turned away with a little final wave of the 
hand. 

“Glad I didn’t miss him altogether,” he observed 
cheerfully. ‘‘ Good-afternoon, Mr. Gayes! Good- 
by, England!” 


CHAPTER IV 


Mr. Raymond Greene, very soon after the bugle 
had sounded for dinner that evening, took his place 
at the head of one of the small tables in the saloon 
and wished every one good evening. It was perfectly 
apparent that he meant to enjoy the trip, that he 
was prepared to like his fellow passengers and that he 
wished them to know it. Even the somewhat melan- 
choly-looking steward, who had been waiting for his 
arrival, cheered up at the sight of his beaming face, 
and the other four occupants of the table returned 
his salutation according to their lights. 

“Two vacant places, I am sorry to see,” Mr. 
Greene observed. ‘One of them I can answer for, 
though. The young lady who is to sit on my right 
will be down directly — Miss Elizabeth Dalstan, the 
great actress, you know. She is by way of being 
under my charge. Very charming and _ talented 
young lady she is. Let us see who our other ab- 
sentee is.” 

He stretched across and glanced at the name upon 
the card. 

“Mr. Douglas Romilly,” he read out. “ Quite a 
good name — English, without a doubt. I have 
crossed with you before, haven’t I, sir?” he went 
on affably, turning to his nearest neighbour on the 


left. 


28 THE CINEMA MURDER 


A burly, many-chinned American signified his as- 
sent. 

“Why, I should say so,” he admitted, “ and I’d 
like a five-dollar bill, Mr. Greene, for every film I’ve 
seen of yours in the United States.” 

Mr. Greene beamed with satisfaction. 

“Well, I am glad to hear you’ve come across my 
stuff,” he declared. ‘‘ I’ve made some name for my- 
self on the films and I am proud of it. Raymond 
Greene it is, at your service.” 

* Joseph P. Hyam’s mine,” the large American 
announced, watching the disappearance of his soup 
plate with an air of regret. ‘I’m in the clothing 
business. If my wife were here, she’d say you 
wouldn’t think it to look at me. Never was faddy 
about myself, though,” he added, with a glance at 
Mr. Greene’s very correct dinner attire. 

** You ought to remember me, Mr. Greene,” one of 
the two men remarked from the right-hand side of 
the table. “I’ve played golf with you at Baltusrol 
more than once.” 

Mr. Greene glanced surreptitiously at the card 
and smiled. 

“Why, it’s James P. Busby, of course!” he ex- 
claimed. ‘“ Your father’s the Busby Iron Works, 
isn’t he? ” 

The young man nodded. 

“ And this is Mr. Caroll, one of our engineers,” 
he said, indicating a rather rough-looking personage 
by his side. 

“‘ Delighted to meet you both,” Mr. Greene as- 
sured them. “Say, I remember your golf, Mr. 
Busby! You’re some driver, eh? And those long 


THE CINEMA MURDER 29 


putts of yours — you never took three on any green 
that I can remember! ” 

** Been paying in England?” the young man 
asked. 

Mr. Bend Greene shook his head. 

** When I am on business,” he explained, “ I don’t 
carry my sticks about with me, and I tell you this 
last fortnight has been a giddy whirl for me. I was 
in Berlin Wednesday night, and I did business in 
Vienna last Monday. Ah! here comes Miss Dal- 
stan.” 

He rose ceremoniously to his feet. A young lady 
who was still wearing her travelling clothes smiled 
at him delightfully and sank into the chair by his 
side. During the little stir caused by her arrival, 
no one paid any attention to the man who had 
slipped into the other vacant place opposite. Mr. 
Greene, however, when he had finished making known 
his companion’s wants to the steward, welcomed 
Philip Romilly genially. 

“ Now we're a full table,” he declared.  That’s 
what I like. I only hope we'll keep it up all the 
voyage. Mind, there’ll be a forfeit for the first one 
that misses a meal. Mr. Romilly, isn’t it? ” he went 
on, glancing at his left-hand neighbour’s card once 
more. “ My name’s Raymond Greene. I am an old 
traveller and there’s nothing I enjoy more, outside 
my business, than these little ocean trips, especially 
when they come after a pretty strenuous time on 
shore. Crossed many times, sir? ” 

“‘ Never before,” Philip answered. 

“First trip, eh?” Mr. Greene remarked, mildly 
interested. ‘ Well, well, you’ve some surprises in 


30 THE CINEMA MURDER 


store for you, then. Let me make you acquainted 
with your opposite neighbour, Miss Elizabeth Dal- 
stan. I dare say, even if you haven’t been in the 
States, you know some of our principal actresses by 
name.” 

Philip raised his head and caught a glimpse of a 
rather pale face, a mass of deep brown hair, a pleas- 
ant smile from a very shapely mouth, and the rather 
intense regard of a pair of wonderfully soft eyes, 
whose colour at that moment he was not able to de- 
termine. 

“I have had the pleasure of seeing Miss Dalstan 
on the stage,” he observed. 

“Capital!” Mr. Raymond Greene exclaimed. 
“We haven’t met before, have we, Mr. Romilly? 
Something kind of familiar in your face. You are 
not by way of being in the Profession, are you? ” 

Romilly shook his head. 

“I am a manufacturer,” he acknowledged. 

“That so?” his neighbour remarked, a trifle sur- 
prised. “Queer! I had a fancy that we’d met, and 
quite lately, too. I am in the cinema business. You 
may have heard of me — Raymond Greene? ” 

‘**T have seen some of your films,” Philip told him. 
“Very excellent productions, if you will allow me 
to say so.” 

“That’s pleasant hearing at any time,” Mr. 
Greene admitted, with a gratified smile. ‘“ Well, I 
can see that we are going to be quite a friendly party. 
That’s Mr. Busby on your right, Mr. Romilly — 
some golfer, I can tell you! — and his friend Mr. 
Caroll alongside. The lady next you —” 

“My name is Miss Pinsent.” the elderly lady in- 


THE CINEMA MURDER 31 


dicated declared pleasantly, replying to Mr. Greene’s 
interrogative glance. “It is my first trip to 
America, too. I am going out to see a nephew who 
has settled in Chicago.” 

“Capital!” Mr. Raymond Greene repeated. 
‘** Now we are all more or less a family party. What 
did you say your line of business was, Mr. Rom- 
ily?” 

** I don’t remember mentioning it,” Philip observed, 
“ but I am a manufacturer of boots and shoes.” 

Elizabeth Dalstan looked across at him a little 
curiously. One might have surmised that she was in 
some way disappointed. 

“Coming over to learn a thing or two from us, 
eh?” Mr. Greene went on. “ You use all our ma- 
chinery, don’t you? Well, there’s Paul Lawton on 
board, from Brockton. I should think he has one of 
the biggest plants in Massachusetts. I must make 
you acquainted with him.” 

Philip frowned slightly. 

* That is very kind of you, Mr. Greene,” he ac- 
knowledged, “‘ but do you know I would very much 
rather not talk business with any one while I am on 
the steamer? I am a little overworked and I need 
the rest.” 

Elizabeth Dalstan looked at her vis-a-vis with 
some renewal of her former interest. She saw a 
young man who was, without doubt, good-looking, 
although he certainly had an over-tired and some- 
what depressed appearance. His cheeks were colour- 
less, and there were little dark lines under his eyes as 
though he suffered from sleeplessness. He was clean- 
shaven and he had the sensitive mouth of an artist. 


32 THE CINEMA MURDER 


His forehead was high and exceptionally good. His 
air of breeding was unmistakable. 

* You do look a little fagged,’ Mr. Raymond 
Greene observed sympathetically. ‘* Well, these are 
strenuous days in business. We all have to stretch 
out as far as we can go, and keep stretched out, or 
else some one else will get ahead of us. Business been 
good with you this fall, Mr. Romilly? ” 

‘Very fair, thank you,” Philip answered a little 
vaguely. ‘°° Tell me, Miss Dalstan,” he went on, lean- 
ing slightly towards her, and with a note of curiosity 
in his tone, ‘* I want to know your candid opinion of 
the last act of the play I saw you in — ‘ Henderson’s 
Second Wife’? I made up my mind that if ever I 
had the privilege of meeting you, I would ask you 
that question.” 

**T know exactly why,” she declared, with a quick 
little nod of appreciation. Listen.” 

They talked together for some time, earnestly. 
Mr. Greene addressed his conversation to his neigh- 
bours lower down the table. It was not until the 
arrival of dessert that Philip and his vis-a-vis aban- 
doned their discussion. 

“Tell me, have you written yourself, Mr. 
Romilly? ” Elizabeth Dalstan asked him with in- 
terest. 

“TI have made an attempt at it,” he confessed. 

“‘ Most difficult thing in the whole world to write a 
play,”? Mr. Raymond Greene intervened, seeing an 
opportunity to join once more in the conversation. 
“ Most difficult thing in the world, I should say. 
Now with pictures it’s entirely different. The slight- 
est little happening in everyday life may give you the 


THE CINEMA MURDER 33 


start, and then, there you are — the whole thing un- 
ravels itself. Now let me give you an example,” he 
went on, helping himself to a little more whisky and 
soda. ‘* Only yesterday afternoon, on our way up to 
Liverpool, the train got pulled up somewhere in 
Derbyshire, and I sat looking out of the window. It 
was a dreary neighbourhood, a miserable afternoon, 
and we happened to be crossing a rather high viaduct. 
Down below were some meadows and a canal, and by 
the side of the canal, a path. Ata certain point — I 
should think about half a mile from where the train 
was standing — this path went underneath a rude 
bridge, built of bricks and covered over with turf. 
Well, as I sat there I could see two men, both ap- 
proaching the bridge along the path from opposite 
directions. One was tall, dressed in light tweeds, a 
good-looking fellow — looked like one of your coun- 
try squires except that he was a little on the thin 
side. The other was a _ sombre-looking person, 
dressed in dark clothes, about your height and build, 
I should say, Mr. Romilly. Well, they both dis- 
appeared under that bridge at the same moment, and 
I don’t know why, but I leaned forward to see them 
come out. ‘The train was there for quite another two 
minutes, perhaps more. There wasn’t another soul 
anywhere in sight, and it was raining as it only can 
rain in England.” 

Mr. Raymond Greene paused. Every one at the 
table had been listening intently. He glanced around 
at their rapt faces with satisfaction. He was con- 
scious of the artist’s dramatic touch. Once more it 
had not failed him. He had excited mterest. In 
Philip Romilly’s eyes there was something even more 


34 THE CINEMA MURDER 


than interest. It seemed almost as though he were 
trying to project his thoughts back and conjure up 
for himself the very scene which was being described 
to him. The young man was certainly in a very 
delicate state of health, Mr. Greene decided. 

“You are keeping us in suspense, sir,” the elderly 
lady complained, leaning forward in her place. 
“Please go on. What happened when they came 
out? ” 

** That,’ Mr. Raymond Greene said impressively, 
“is the point of the story. The train remained 
standing there, as I have said, for several minutes — 
as many minutes, in fact, as it would have taken them 
seconds to have traversed that tunnel. Notwith- 
standing that, they neither of them appeared again. 
I sat there, believe me, with my eyes fastened upon 
that path, and when the train started I leaned out of 
the window until we had rounded the curve and we 
were out of sight, but I never saw either of those two 
men again. Now there’s the beginning of a film story 
for you! What do you want more than that? 
There’s dramatic interest, surprise, an original situa- 
tion.” 

““ After all, I suppose the explanation was quite 
a simple one,” Mr. Busby remarked. ‘They were 
probably acquaintances, and they stayed to have a 
chat.” 

Mr. Raymond Greene shook his head doubtfully. 

‘‘ All I can say to that is that it was a queer place 
to choose for a little friendly conversation,” he pro- 
nounced. ‘They were both tall men— about the 
same height, I should say — and it would have been 
impossible for them to have even stood upright.” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 35 


“You mentioned the fact, did you not,” the lady 
who called herself Miss Pinsent observed, “ that it 
was raining heavily at the time? Perhaps they 
stayed under the bridge to shelter.” 

“That’s something I never thought of,’ Mr. 
Greene admitted, “ perhaps for the reason that they 
both of them seemed quite indifferent to the rain. 
The young man in the dark clothes hadn’t even an 
umbrella. I must admit that I allowed my thoughts 
to travel in another direction. Professional instinct, 
you see, It was a fairly broad canal, and the water 
was nearly up to the towing-path. Id lay a wager 
it was twelve or fifteen feet deep. Supposing those 
two men had met on that narrow path and quar- 
relled! Supposing —” 

66 Don’t! 99 

Mr. Raymond Greene stopped short. He gazed 
in amazement at Elizabeth Dalstan, who had suddenly 
clutched his hand. There was something in her face 
which puzzled as well as startled him. She had been 
looking at her opposite neighbour but she turned 
back towards the narrator of this thrilling story as 
the monosyllable broke from her lips. 

* Please stop,” she begged. ‘‘ You are too dra- 
matic, Mr. Greene. You really frighten me.” 

* Frighten you ?” he repeated. ‘“ My dear Miss 
Dalstan!” 

**I suppose it is very absurd of me,”’ she went on, 
smiling appealingly at him, “ but your words were 
altogether too graphic. I can’t bear to think of 
what might have taken place underneath that tunnel! 
You must remember that I saw it, too. Don’t ga 
on. Don’t talk about it any more. I am going up- 


36 THE CINEMA MURDER 


stairs for my cigarette. Are you coming to get my 
chair for me, Mr. Greene, or must I rely upon the 
deck steward? ” 

Mr. Raymond Greene was a very gallant man, and 
he did not hesitate for a moment. He sprang to 
his feet and escorted the young lady from the saloon. 
He glanced back, as he left the table, to nod his 
adieux to the little company whom he had taken 
under his charge. Philip Romilly was gazing stead- 
fastly out of the porthole. 

“Kind of delicate young fellow, that,” he re- 
marked. ‘ Nice face, too. Can’t help thinking that 
I’ve met or seen some one like him lately.” 


CHAPTER V 


Philip Romilly found himself alone at last with 
the things which he had craved — darkness, solitude, 
the rushing of the salt wind, the sense of open spaces. 
On the other, the sheltered side of the steamer, long 
lines of passengers were stretched in wicker chairs, 
smoking and drinking their coffee, but where he was 
no one came save an occasional promenader. Yet 
even here was a disappointment. He had come for 
peace, for a brief escape from the thrall of memories 
which during the last few hours had become charged 
with undreamed-of horrors — and there was to be 
no peace. In the shadowy darkness which rested 
upon the white-churned sea flying past him, he saw 
again, with horrible distinctness, the face, the figure 
of the man who for those few brief minutes he had 
hated with a desperate and passionate hatred. He 
saw the broken photograph, the glass splintered into 
a thousand pieces. He saw the man himself, choking, 
sinking down beneath the black waters; heard the 
stifled cry from his palsied lips, saw the slow dawning 
agony of death in his distorted features. Some one 
was playing a mandolin down in the second class. 
He heard the feet of a dancer upon the deck, the little 
murmur of applause. Well, after all, this was life. 
It was a rebuke of fate to his own illogical and useless 
Vapourings. Men died every second whilst women 


38 THE CINEMA MURDER 


danced, and no one who knew life had any care save 
for the measure of their own days. Some freakish 
thought pleaded stridently his own justification. 
His mind travelled back down the gloomy avenues of 
his past, along those last aching years of grinding 
and undeserved poverty. He remembered his up- 
bringing, his widowed mother, a woman used to every 
luxury, struggling to make both ends meet in a sub- 
urban strect, in a hired cottage filled with hired fur- 
niture. He remembered his schooldays, devoid of 
pocket money, unable to join in the sports of others, 
slaving with melancholy perseverance for a scholar- 
ship to lighten his mother’s burden. Always there 
was the same ghastly, crushing penuriousness, the 
struggle to make a living before his schooldays were 
well over, the unbought books he had fingered at the 
bookstalls and let drop again, the coarse clothes he 
had been compelled to wear, the scanty food he had 
eaten, the narrow, driving ways of poverty, culminat- 
ing in his mother’s death and his own fear — he, at 
_ the age of nineteen years — lest the money for her 
funeral should not be forthcoming. If there were 
any hell, surely he had lved in it! This other, 
whose flames mocked him now, could be no worse. 
Sin! Crime! He remembered the words of the girl 
who during these latter years had represented to him 
what there might have been of light in life. He re- 
membered, and it seemed to him that he could meet 
that ghostly image which had risen from the black 
waters, without shrinking, almost contemptuously. 
Fate had mocked him long enough. It was time, in- 
deed, that he helped himself. 

He swung away from the solitude to the other side 


THE CINEMA MURDER 39 


of the steamer, paused in a sheltered spot while he 
lit a cigarette, and paced up and down the more fre- 
quented ways. <A soft voice from an invisible mass 
of furs and rugs, called to him. 

* Mr. Romilly, please come and talk to me. My 
rug has slipped —thank you so much. ‘Take this 
chair next mine for a few minutes, won’t you? Mr. 
Greene has rushed off to the smoking room. I 
think he has just been told that there is a rival cinema 
producer on board, and he is trying to run him to 
ground.” 

Philip settled himself without hesitation in the 
vacant place. | 

“One is forced to envy Mr. Raymond Greene,” he 
sighed. ‘‘'To have work in life which one loves as 
he does his is the rarest form of happiness.” 

* What about your own?” she asked him. “ But 
you are a manufacturer, are you not? Somehow 
or other, that surprises me.” 

“And me,” he acknowledged frankly. ‘I mean 
that I wonder I have persevered at it so long.” 

‘“‘ But you are a very young man!” 

“Young or old,” he answered, “ I am one of those 
who have made a false start in life. JI amon my way 
to new things. Do you think, Miss Dalstan, that 
your country is a good place for one to visit who 
seeks new things? ” 

She turned in her chair a little more towards him. 
Against the background of empty spaces, the pale 
softness of her face seemed to gain a new attractive- 
ness. 

“‘ Well, that depends,” she said reflectively, “‘ upon 
what these new things might be which you desire. 


40 THE CINEMA MURDER 


For an ambitious business man America is a great 
country.” 

“ But supposing one had finished with business? ” 
he persisted. ‘Supposing one wanted to develop 
tastes and a gift for another method of life? ” 

“Then I should say that New York is the one place 
in the world,” she told him. ‘“ You are speaking of 
yourself? ” 

66 Yes ! 99 

** You have ambitions, I am sure,”’ she continued. 
* Tell me, are they literary? ” | 

** I would like to call them so,” he admitted. “I 
have written a play and three stories, so bad that no 
one would produce the play or publish the stories.” 

“You have brought them with you? ” 

He shook his head. 

“No! They are where I shall never see them 
again.” 

“Never see them again? ” she repeated, puzzled. 

“JT mean that I have left them at home. I have 
left them there, perhaps, to a certain extent delib- 
erately,” he went on. ‘* You see, the idea is still with 
me. I think that I shall rewrite them when I have 
settled down in America. I fancy that I shall find 
myself in an atmosphere more conducive to the sort 
of work I want to do. I would rather not be handi- 
capped by the ghosts of my old failures.” 

** One’s ghosts are hard sometimes to escape from,” 
she whispered. 

He clutched nervously at the end of his rug. She 
looked up and down along the row of chairs. There 
were one or two slumbering forms, but most were 
empty. ‘There were no promenaders in sight. 


THE CINEMA MURDER 41 


* You know,” she asked, her voice still very low, 
“why I left the saloon a little abruptly this eve- 
ning? ” 

“Why? ” he demanded. 

** Because,” she went on, “I could see the effect 
which Mr. Raymond Greene’s story had upon you; 
because I, also, was in that train, and J have better 
eyesight than Mr. Greene. You were one of the two 
men who were walking along the towpath.” 

* Well? ” he muttered. 

*¢ You have nothing to tell me? ” 

* Nothing! ” 

She waited for a moment. 

** At least you have not attempted to persuade me 
that you lingered underneath that bridge to escape 
from the rain,”’ she remarked. 

“If I cannot tell you the truth,” he promised, “ I 
am not going to tell you a lie, but apart from that I 
admit nothing. I do not even admit that it was I 
whom you saw.” 

She laid her hand upon his. The touch of her 
fingers was wonderful, cool and soft and somehow 
reassuring. He felt a sense of relaxation, felt the 
strain of living suddenly grow less. 

“You know,” she said, “all my friends tell me 
that I am a restful person. You are living at high 
pressure, are you not? Try and forget it. Fate 
makes queer uses of all of us sometimes. She sends 
her noblest sons down into the shadows and pitch- 
forks her outcasts into the high places of life. ‘Those 
do best who learn to control themselves, to live and 
think for the best.” 

“ Go on talking to me,” he begged. “Is it your 


42 THE CINEMA MURDER 


voice, I wonder, that is so soothing, or just what you 
say?” 

She smiled reassuringly. 

“You are glad because you have found a friend,” 
she told him, “ and a friend who, even if she does not 
understand, does not wish to understand. Do you 
see? ” 

“I wish I felt that I deserved it,” he groaned. 

She laughed almost gaily. 

** What a sorting up there would be of our places 
in life,” she declared, “if we all had just what we 
deserved! . . . Now give me your arm. I want to 
walk a little. While we walk, if you like, I will try 
to tell you what I can about New York. It may 
interest you.” | 

They walked up and down the deck, and by degrees 
_ their conversation drifted into a discussion of such 
recent plays as were familiar to both of them, At 
the far end of the ship she clung to him once or twice 
as the wind came booming over the freshening waves. ~ 
She weighed and measured his criticisms of the plays 
they spoke of, and in the main approved of them. 
When at last she stopped outside the companionway 
and bade him good night, the deck was almost de 
serted. ‘They were near one of the electric lights, 
and he saw her face more distinctly than he had seen 
it at all, realised more adequately its wonderful 
charm. The large, firm mouth, womanly and tender 
though it was, was almost the mouth of a protector. 
She smiled at him as one might smile at a boy. 

* You are to sleep well,” she said firmly. ‘“ Those 
are my orders. Good night!” 

She gave him her hand — a woman’s soft and deli- 


THE CINEMA MURDER 43 


cate fingers, yet clasping his with an almost virile 
strength and friendliness. She left him with just 
that feeling about her — that she was expansive, in 
her heart, her sympathies, even her brain and peculiar 
gifts of apprehension. She left him, too, with a 
curious sense of restfulness, as though suddenly he 
had become metamorphosed into the woman and had 
found a sorely-needed guardian. He abandoned 
without a second thought his intention of going to 
the smoking-room and sitting up late. The thought 
of his empty stateroom, a horror to him a few hours 
ago, seemed suddenly almost alluring, and he made 
his way there cheerfully. He felt the sleep already 
upon his eyes. 


CHAPTER VI 


All the physical exhilaration of his unlived youth 
seemed to be dancing in Philip Romilly’s veins when 
he awoke the next morning to find an open porthole, 
the blue sea tossing away to infinity, and his steward’s 
cheerful face at his bedside. 

** Bathroom steward says if you are ready, sir, he 
can arrange for your bath now,” the man announced. 

Philip sprang out of bed and reached for his Bond 
Street dressing-gown. 

*T’ll bring you a cup of tea when you get back, 
sir,” the steward continued. “ The bathrooms are 
exactly opposite.” 

The sting of the salt water seemed to complete his - 
new-found light-heartedness. Philip dressed and 
shaved, whistling softly all the time to himself. He 
even found a queer sort of interest in examining his 
stock of ties and other garments. The memory of 
Elizabeth Dalstan’s words was still in his brain. 
They had become the text of his life. This, he told 
himself, was his birthday. He even accepted without 
a tremor a letter and telegram which the steward 
brought him. 

‘‘ These were in the rack for you, sir,” he said. “I ~ 
meant to bring them down last night but we had a 
busy start off.” 

Philip took them up on deck to read. He tore 


THE CINEMA MURDER 45 


open the telegram first and permitted himself a little 
start when he saw the signature. It was sent off 
from Detton Magna,— 


“Why did you not come as promised? What am I 
todo? BratrRicr.” 


The envelope of the letter he opened with a little 
more compunction. It was written on the printed 
notepaper of the Douglas Romilly Shoe Company, 
and was of no great length,— 


Dear Mr. Romilly, 


I understood that you would return to the factory this 
evening for a few minutes, before taking the train to 
Liverpool. There were one or two matters upon whick 
I should like some further information, but as time is 
short I am writing to you at the Waldorf Hotel at New 
York. 

I see that the acceptances due next 4th are unusually 
heavy, but I think I understood you to say that you had 
spoken to Mr. Henshaw at the bank concerning these, 
and in any case I presume there would be no difficulty. 

Wishing you every success on the other side, and a 
safe return, ah, 

I am, 

Your obedient servant, 
J. L. Porrs. 


“ There is not the slightest doubt,” Philip said to 
himself, as he tore both communications into pieces 
and watched them flutter away downwards, “ that I 
am on my way to New York. If only one knew what 
had become of that poor, half-starved art mas- 
ter!” 

He went down to breakfast and afterwards strolled 


46 THE CINEMA MURDER 


aimlessly about the deck. His sense of enjoyment 
was so extraordinarily keen that he found it hard to 
settle down to any of the usual light occupations of 
idle travellers. He was content to stand by the rail 
and gaze across the sea, a new wonder to him; or to 
lie about in his steamer chair and listen, with half- 
closed eyes, to the hissing of the spray and the faint 
music of the wind. His mind turned by chance to 
one of those stories of which he had spoken. A sud- 
den new vigour of thought seemed to rend it inside out 
almost in those first few seconds. He thought of the 
garret in which it had been written, the wretched 
surroundings, the odoriferous food, the thick 
crockery, the smoke-palled vista of roofs and chim- 
neys. The genius of a Stevenson would have become 
dwarfed in such surroundings. A phrase, a happy 
idea, suddenly caught his fancy. He itched for a 
pencil and paper. ‘Then he looked up to find the one 
thing wanting. Elizabeth Dalstan, followed by a 
maid carrying rugs and cushions, had paused, smil- 
ing, by his side. 

“You have slept and you are better,” she said 
pleasantly. ‘“ Now for the next few minutes you 
must please devote yourself to making me comfort- 
able. Put everything down, Phoebe. Mr. Romilly 
will look after me.” 

For a moment he paused before proceeding to his 
task. 

“‘ T want to look at you,” he confessed. ‘“ Remem- 
ber I have only seen you under the electric lights of — 
the saloon, or in that queer, violet gloom of last night. 
Why, you have quite light hair, and I thought it was 
dark!” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 47 


She laughed good-humouredly and turned slowly 
around. 

“Here I am,” she announced, “ a much bephoto- 
graphed person. Almost plain, some journalists 
have dared to call me, but for my expression. On 
flowing lines, as you see, because I always wear such 
loose clothes, and yet, believe me, slim. As a matter 
of fact,” she went on pensively, “I am rather proud 
of my figure. A little journalist who had annoyed 
me, and to whom I was rude, once called it ample. 
No one has ever ventured to say more. The critics 
who love me, and they most of them love me because 
I am so exceptionally polite to them, and tell them 
exactly what to say about every new play, allude to 
my physique as Grecian.” 

“But your eyes!” he exclaimed. “ Last night I 
thought they were grey. This morning — why, 
surely they are brown? ” 

* You see, that is all according to the light,” she 
confided. ‘If any one does try to write a descrip- 
tion of me, they generally evade the point by calling 
them browny-grey. A young man who was in love 
with me,” she sighed, “ but that was long ago, used 
to say that they reminded him of fallen leaves in a 
place where the sunlight sometimes is and sometimes 
isn’t. And now, if you please, I want to be made 
exceedingly comfortable. I want you to find the deck 
steward and see that I have some beef tea as quickly 
as possible. I want my box of cigarettes on one side 
and my vanity case on the other, and I should like to 
listen to the plot of your play.” 

He obeyed her behests with scrupulous care, leaned 
back in his chair and brought into the foreground 


b] 


48 THE CINEMA MURDER 


of his mind the figures of those men and women who 
had told his story, finding them, to his dismay, un- 
expectedly crude and unlifelike. And the story 
itself. Was unhappiness so necessary, after all? 
They suddenly seemed to crumble away into insig- 
nificance, these men and women of his creation. In 
their place he could almost fancy a race of larger 
beings, a more extensive canvas, a more splendid, a 
riper and richer vocabulary. 
“Nothing that I have ever done,” he sighed, “ is 
worth talking to you about. But if you are going to 
be my friend —” 

“Well? ” 

“If you are going to be my friend,” he went on, 
with almost inspired conviction, “I shall write some- 
thing different.” 

“One can rebuild,” she murmured. ‘*One can 
sometimes use the old pieces. Life and chess are both 
hike that.” 

“Would you help me, I wonder? ” he asked mm- 
pulsively. 

She looked away from him, out across the steamer 
rail. She seemed to be measuring with her eyes the 
roll of the ship as it rose and fell in the trough of 
the sea. 

“ You are a strange person,” she said. “ Tell me, 
are you in the habit of becoming suddenly dependent 
upon people? ” 

“Not I,” he assured her. “If I were to tell you 
how my last ten years have been spent, you would not 
believe me. You couldn’t. If I were to speak of 
a tearing, unutterable loneliness, if I were to speak of 
poverty — not the poverty you know anything about, 


THE CINEMA MURDER 49 


but the poverty of bare walls, of coarse food and little 
enough of it, of everything cheap and miserable and 
soiled and second-hand — nothing fresh, nothing 
real —” 

He stopped abruptly. 

* But I forgot,” he muttered. ‘I can’t explain.” 

“Is one to understand,” she asked, a little puz- 
zled, “that you have had difficulties in your busi- 
ness? ” 

*“*T have never been in business,” he answered 
quickly. ‘“‘My name is Romilly, but I am not 
Romilly the manufacturer. For the last eight years 
I have lived in a garret in London, teaching false art 
in a third-rate school some of the time, doing penny- 
a-line journalistic work when I got the chance; clerk 
for a month or two in a brewer’s office and sacked for 
incapacity — those are a few of the real threads in 
my life.” 

** At the present moment, then,” she observed, 
** you are an impostor.” 

“* Exactly,” he admitted, “ and I should probably 
have been repenting it by now but for your words 
last night.” 

She smiled at him and the sun shone once more. 
It wasn’t an ordinary smile at all. It was just as 
though she were letting him into the light of her un- 
derstanding, as though some one from the world, en- 
trance into which he had craved, had stooped down 
to understand and was telling him that all was well. 
He drew his chair a little closer to hers. 

“We are all more or less impostors,” she said. 
* Does any one, I wonder, go about the world telling 
everybody what they really are, how they really live? 


50 THE CINEMA MURDER 


Dear me, how unpleasant and uncomfortable it would 
be! You are so wise, my new friend. You know the 
value of impulses. You tell me the truth, and I am 
your friend. Ido not need facts, because facts count 
for little. I judge by what lies behind, and I under- 
stand. Do not weary me with explanations. I like 
what you have told me. Only, of course, your work 
must have suffered from surroundings like that. 
Will it be better for you now? ” 

**T shall land in New York,” he told her, * with at 
least a thousand pounds. ‘That is about as much as 
I have spent in ten years. There is the possibility 
of other money. Concerning that — well, I can’t 
make up my mind. The thousand pounds, of course, 
is stolen.” 

“So I gathered,” she remarked. ‘‘ Do you con- 
tinue, may I ask, to be Douglas Romilly, the man- 
ufacturer? ” 

He shook his head a little vaguely. 

“JT haven’t thought,” he confessed. ‘“ But of 
course I don’t. I have risked everything for the 
chance of a new life. I shall start it in a new way 
and under a new name.” 

He was suddenly conscious of her pity, of a moist- 
ness in her eyes as she looked at him. 

“T think,” she said, “that you must have been 
very miserable. Above all things, now, whatever you 
may have done for your liberty, don’t be faint- 
hearted. If you are in trouble or danger you must 
come to me. You promise? ” 

“If I may,” he assented fervently. 

“Now I must hear the play as it stood in your 
thoughts when you wrote it,” she insisted. ‘“‘ I have 


THE CINEMA MURDER 51 


a fancy that it will sound a little gloomy. Am I 
right? ” 

He laughed. 

**Of course you are! How could I write in any 
other way except through the darkened spectacles? 
However, there’s a way out — of altering it, I mean. 
I feel flashes of it already. Listen.” 

The story expanded with relation. He no longer 
felt confined to its established lines. Every now and 
then he paused to tell her that this or that was new, 
and she nodded appreciatively. They walked for a 
time, watched the seagulls, and bade their farewell 
to the Irish coast. 

** You will have to re-write that play for me,” she 
said, a little abruptly, as she paused before the com- 
panionway. “I am going down to my room for a 
few minutes before lunch now. Afterwards I shall 
bring up a pencil and paper. We will make some 
notes together.” 

Philip walked on to the smoking room. He could 
scarcely believe that the planks he trod were of solid 
wood. Raymond Greene met him at the entrance 
and slapped him on the back: 

“ Just in time for a cocktail before lunch!” he 
exclaimed. “I was looking everywhere for a pal. 
Two Martinis, dry as you like, Jim,” he added, turn- 
ing round to the smoking room steward. “Sure you 
won’t join us, Lawton? ” 

“ Daren’t!” was the laconic answer from the man 
whom he had addressed. 

“‘ By-the-bye,” Mr. Raymond Greene went on, “ let 
me make you two acquainted. This is Mr. Douglas 
Romilly, an English boot manufacturer — Mr. Paul 


52 THE CINEMA MURDER 


Lawton of Brockton. Mr. Lawton owns one of the 
largest boot and shoe plants in the States,” the in- 
troducer went on. ‘‘ You two ought to find some- 
thing to talk about.” 

Philip held out his hand without a single moment’s 
hesitation. He was filled with a new confidence. 

“IT should be delighted to talk with Mr. Lawton 
on any subject mm the world,” he declared, ‘* except 
our respective businesses.” 

“YT am very glad to meet you, sir,” the other re- 
plied, shaking hands heartily. ‘“‘ I don’t follow that 
last stipulation of yours, though.” 

“It simply means that I am taking seven days’ 
holiday,” Philip explained gaily, ‘‘ seven days during 
which I have passed my word to myself to neither talk 
business nor think business. Your very good health, 
Mr. Raymond Greene,” he went on, drinking his 
cocktail with relish. ‘‘ If we meet on the other side, 
Mr. Lawton, we'll compare notes as much as you 
like.” 

“'That’s all right, sir,” the other agreed. “TI 
don’t know as you’re not right. We Americans do 
hang round our businesses, and that’s a fact. Still, 
there’s a little matter of lasts I should like to have 
a word or two with you about some time.” 

** A little matter of what? ” Philip asked vaguely. 

** Lasts,” the other repeated. ‘“‘ That’s where your | 
people and ours look different ways chiefly, that and 
a little matter of manipulation of our machinery.” 

* Just so,” Philip assented, swallowing the rest 
of his cocktail. ‘‘ What about luncheon? There’s 
nothing in the world to give you an appetite like this 
sea air.” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 53 


“1m with you,” Mr. Raymond Greene chimed in. 
* You two can have your trade talk later on.” 

He took his young friend’s arm, and they descended 
the stairs together. 

** What the mischief is a last? ’’ he inquired. 

** T haven’t the least idea,” Philip replied carelessly. 
** Something to do with boots and shoes, isn’t it? ” 

His questioner stared at him for a moment and 
then laughed. 

“Say, you’re a young man of your word!” he 
remarked .ppreciatively. 


CHAPTER VII 


Philip Romilly was accosted, late that afternoon, 
by two young women whose presence on board he had 
noticed with a certain amount of disapproval. They 
were obviously of the chorus-girl type, a fact which 
they seemed to lack the ambition to conceal. After 
several would-be ingratiating giggles, they finally 
pulled up in front of him whilst he was promenading 
the deck. 

** You are Mr. Romilly, aren’t you? ” one of them 
asked. ‘ Bob Millet told us you were going to be on 
this steamer. You know Bob, don’t you? ” 

Philip for a moment was taken aback. 

** Bob Millet,” he repeated thoughtfully. 

“Of course! Good old Bob! I don’t mind con- 
fessing,” the young woman went on, “‘ that though we 
were all out one night together — Trocadero, Em- 
pire, and Murray’s afterwards — I should never have 
recognised you. Seems to me you’ve got thinner and 
more serious-looking.” 

“TI am afraid my own memory is also at fault,” 
Philip remarked, a little stiffly. 

‘7 am Violet Fox,” the young woman who had 
accosted him continued. ‘This my friend, Hilda 
Mason. She’s a dear girl but a little shy, aren’t 
you, Hilda? ” 

“That’s just because I told her that we ought to 
wait until you remembered us,” the slighter young 


\ 
THE CINEMA MURDER 55 


woman, with the very obvious peroxidised hair, pro- 
tested.” 

** Didn’t seem to be any use waiting for that,” her 
friend retorted briskly. ‘ Hilda and I are dying for 
a cocktail, Mr. Romilly.” 

He led them with an unwillingness of which they 
seemed frankly unaware, towards the lounge. They 
drank two cocktails and found themselves unfortu- 
nately devoid of cigarettes, a misfortune which it 
became his privilege to remedy. They were very 
friendly young ladies, if a little slangy, invited him 
around to their staterooms, and offered to show him 
the runs around New York. Philip escaped after 
about an hour and made his way to where Elizabeth 
was reclining in her deck chair. 

* That fellow Romilly,” he declared irritably, “ the 
other one, I mean, seems to have had the vilest tastes. 
If I am to be landed with any more of his ridiculous 
indiscretions, I think I shall have to go overboard. 
There was an enterprising gentleman named Gayes 
in Liverpool, who nearly drove me crazy, then there’s 
this Mr. Lawton who wants to talk about lasts, and 
finally it seems that I dined at the Trocadero and 
spent the evening at the Empire and Murray’s with 
the two very obvious-looking young ladies who 
accosted me just now. I am beginning to believe 
that Douglas’ life was not above suspicion.” 

She smiled at him tolerantly. An unopened book 
lay by her side. She seemed to have been spending 
the last quarter of an hour in thought. 

“JT am rather relieved to hear,” she confessed, 
“that those two young people are a heritage from 
the other Mr. Romilly. No, don’t sit down,” she 


56 THE CINEMA MURDER 


went on. ‘I want you to do something forme. Go 
into the library, and on the left-hand side as you 
enter you will see all the wireless news. Read the 
bottom item and then come back to me.” 

He turned slowly away. All his new-found buoy- 
ancy of spirits had suddenly left him. He cursed 
the imagination which lifted his feet from the white 
decks and dragged his eyes from the sparkling blue 
sea to the rain-soaked, smut-blackened fields riven by 
that long thread of bleak, turgid water. The 
horrors of a murderous passion beat upon his brain. 
He saw himself hastening, grim and blind, on his 
devil-sped mission. ‘Then the haze faded from before . 
his eyes. Somehow or other he accomplished his 
errand. He was in the library, standing in front of 
those many sheets of typewritten messages, passing 
them all over, heedless of what their message might 
be, until he came to the last and most insignificant. 
Four lines, almost overlapped by another sheet — 


STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE OF A LONDON 
ART TEACHER 


SuicipE FEARED 


Acting upon instructions received, the police are in- 
vestigating a somewhat curious case of disappearance. 
Philip Romilly, a teacher of art in a London school, 
visited Detton Magna on Friday afternoon and appar- 
ently started for a walk along the canal bank, towards 
dusk. Nothing has since been heard of him or his move- 
ments, and arrangements have been made to drag the 
canal at a certain point. 


The letters seemed to grow larger to him as he 
stood and read. He remained in front of the message 


THE CINEMA MURDER 57 


for an inordinately long time. Again his imagina- 
tion was at work. He saw the whole ghastly busi- 
ness, the police on the canal banks, watching the slow 
progress of the men with their drags bringing to the 
surface all the miserable refuse of the turgid waters, 
the dripping black mud, perhaps at last . . . 

He was back again on the deck, walking quite 
steadily yet seeing little. He made his way to the 
smoking room, asked almost indifferently for a 
brandy and soda, and drained it to the last drop. 
Then he walked up the deck to where Elizabeth was 
seated, and dropped into a chair by her side. 

* So I am missing,” he remarked, almost in his 
ordinary tone. “TI really had no idea that I was 
a person of such importance. Fancy reading of my 
own disappearance within a few days of its taking 
place, in the middle of the Atlantic! ” 

“There was probably some one there who gave in- 
formation,” she suggested. 

*“* There was the young lady whom I went to visit,” 
he assented. ‘* She probably watched me cross the 
road and turn in at that gate and take the path by 
the canal side. Yes, she may even have gone to the 
station to see whether I took the only other train 
back to London, and found that I did not. She 
knew, too, that I could only have had a few shillings 
in my pocket, and that my living depended upon being 
in London for my school the next morning. Yes, the 
whole thing was reasonable.” 

** And they are going to drag the canal,” Eliza- 
beth said thoughtfully. 

** A difficult business,” he assured her. ‘ It is one 
of the most ghastly, ill-constructed, filthiest strips of 


58 THE CINEMA MURDER 


water you ever looked upon. It has been the gar- 
bage depository of the villages through which it 
makes its beastly way, for generations. I don’t envy 
the men who have to handle the drags.” 

** You do not believe, then, that they will find any- 
thing — interesting? ” 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

* That type of man,” he continued, ‘ must have a 
morbid mind. There will be dead animals without a 
doubt, worn-out boots, filthy and decomposed articles 
of clothing —” 

* Don’t!” she interrupted. ‘ You know what I 
mean. Do leave off painting your ghastly pictures. 
You know quite well what I mean. Philip Romilly is 
here by my side. What can they hope to find there 
in his place? ” 

His evil moments for that afternoon were over. 
He answered her almost carelessly. 

“Not what they are looking for. Have you 
brought the paper and pencil you spoke of ? I have 
an idea — I am getting fresh ideas every moment now 
that I picture you as my heroine. It is queer, isn’t 
it, how naturally you fall into the réle? ” 

She drew a little nearer to him. He was conscious 
of a mysterious and unfamiliar perfume, perhaps 
from the violets half hidden in her furs, or was it 
something in her hair? It reminded him a little of 
the world the keys into which he had gripped — the 
world of joyousness, of light-hearted pleasures, the 
sunlit world into which he had only looked through 
other men’s eyes. 

‘** Perhaps you knew that I was somewhere across 
the threshold,” she suggested. ‘ Did you drag your 


THE CINEMA MURDER 59 


Mona wholly from your brain, or has she her proto- 
type somewhere in your world? ” 

He shook his head. 

“Therein lies the weakness of all that I have ever 
written,” he declared. ‘*‘ There have been so few in 
my world from whom I could garner even the glean- 
ings of a personality. They are all, my men and 
women, artificially made, not born. ‘Twenty-three 
shillings a week has kept me well outside the locked 
doors.” 

“Yet, you know, in many ways,” she reflected, 
* Mona is like me.” 

** Like you because she was a helper of men,” he 
assented swiftly, “a woman of large sympathies, 
appealing to me, I suppose, because in my solitude, 
thoughts of my own weakness taunted me, weakness 
because I couldn’t break out, I mean. Perhaps for 
that reason the thought of a strong woman fascinated 
me, a woman large in thoughts and ways, a woman 
to whom purposes and tendencies counted most. I 
dreamed of a woman sweetly omnipotent, strong 
without a shadow of masculinity. That is where my 
Mona was to be different from all other created 
figures.” 

“Chance,” she declared, “is a wonderful thing. 
Chance has pitchforked you here, absolutely to my 
side, I, the one woman who could understand what 
you mean, who could give your Mona life. Don’t 
think I am vain,” she went on. “I can assure you 
that my head isn’t the least turned because I have 
been successful. I simply know. Listen. I have 
few engagements in New York. I should not be 
going back at all but to see my mother, who is too 


60 THE CINEMA MURDER 


delicate to travel, and who is miserable when I am 
away for long. ‘Take this pencil and paper. Let us 
leave off dreaming for a little time and give ourselves 
up to technicalities. I want to draft a new first act 
and a new last one, not so very different from your 
version and yet with changes which I want to explain 
as we go on. Bring your chair a little nearer — so. 
Now take down these notes.” 


They worked until the first gong for dinner rang. 
She sat up in her chair with a happy little laugh. 

““Isn’t it wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I never 
knew time to pass so quickly. There isn’t any 
pleasure in the world like this,” she added, a little im- 
pulsively, “the pleasure of letting your thoughts 
run out to meet some one else’s, some one who under- 
stands. 'Take care of every line we have written, my 
friend.” 

“We might go on after dinner,” he suggested 
eagerly. 

She shook her head. 

“Td rather not,” she admitted. ‘ My brain is 
too full. I have a hundred fancies dancing about. 
I even find myself, as we sit here, rehearsing my ges- 
tures, tuning myself to a new outlook. Oh! you 
most disturbing person — intellectually of course, I 
mean,” she added, laughing into his face. ‘Take 
off my rugs and help me up. No, we'll leave them 
there. Perhaps, after dinner, we might walk for a 
little time.” 

‘“‘ But the whole thing is tingling in my brain,” he 
protested. ‘* Couldn’t we go into the library? We 
could find a corner by ourselves.” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 61 


She turned and looked athim, standing up now, 
the wind blowing her skirts, her eyes glowing, her 
lips a little parted. Then for the first time he under- 
stood her beauty, understood the peculiar qualities 
of it, the dissensions of the Press as to her appear- 
ance, the supreme charm of a woman possessed of a 
sweet and passionate temperament, turning her face 
towards the long-wished-for sun. Even the greater 
things caught hold of him in that moment, and he 
felt dimly what was coming. 

** Do you really wish to work? ” she asked. 

He looked away from her. 

“No!” he answered, a little thickly. ‘“ We will 
talk, if you will.” 

They neither of them moved. The atmosphere had 
suddenly become charged with a force indescribable, 
almost numbing. In the far distance they saw the 
level line of lights from a passing steamer. Mr. Ray- 
mond Greene, with his hands in his ulster pockets, 
suddenly spotted them and did for them what they 
seemed to have lost the power to do. 

“Hullo!” he exclaimed. “ve been looking for 
you two everywhere. I don’t want to hurt that 
smoking room steward’s feelings. He’s not bad at 
his job. But,” he added confidentially, dropping 
his voice and taking them both by the arm, “I have 
made a cocktail down in my stateroom — it’s there 
in the shaker waiting for us, something I can’t talk 
about. I’ve given Lawton one, and he’s following me 
about like a dog. Come right this way, both of you. 
Steady across the gangway — she’s pitching a little. 
Why, you look kind of scared, Mr. Romilly. Been 
to sleep, either of you? ” 


62 THE CINEMA MURDER 


Philip’s laugh was almost too long to be natural. 
Elizabeth, as though by accident, had dropped her 
veil. Mr. Raymond Greene, bubbling over with good 
nature and anticipation, led them towards the stairs. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Mr. Raymond Greene could scarcely wait until 
Philip had taken his place at the dinner table that 
evening, to make known his latest discovery. 

“Say, Mr. Romilly,” he exclaimed, leaning a little 
forward, “do you happen to have seen the wireless 
messages to-day ?—those tissue sheets that are 
stuck up in the library? ”’ 

Philip set down the menu, in which he had been 
taking an unusual interest. 

“Yes, I looked through them this afternoon,” he 
acknowledged. 

“There’s a little one at the bottom, looks as 
though it had been shoved in at the last moment. I 
don’t know whether you noticed it. It announced 
the mysterious disappearance of a young man of the 
same name as your own — an art teacher from Lon- 
don, I think he was. I wondered whether it might 
have been any relation? ” 

**I read the message,” Philip admitted. “It cer- 
tainly looks as though it might have referred to my 
cousin.” 

Mr. Raymond Greene became almost impressive 
in his interested earnestness. 

“Talk about coincidences!” he continued. “ Do 
you remember last night talking about subjects for 
cinema plays? I told you of a little incident I 


64 THE CINEMA MURDER 


happened to have noticed on the way from London 
to Liverpool, about the two men somewhere in Derby- 
shire whom I had seen approaching a tunnel over a 
canal — they neither of them came out, you know, 
all the time that the train was standing there.” 

Philip helped himself a little absently to whisky 
and soda from the bottle in front of him. 

“I remember your professional interest in the 
situation,” he confessed. 

“T felt at the time,” Mr. Raymond Greene went on 
eagerly, “ that there was something queer about the 
affair. Listen! I have been putting two and two 
together, and it seems to me that one of those men 
might very well have been this missing Mr. Romilly.” 

Philip shook his head pensively. 

*T don’t think so,’? he ventured. 

“ What’s that? You don’t think so? ” the cinema 
magnate exclaimed. “Why not, Mr. Romilly? 
It’s exactly the district — at Detton Magna, the 
message said, in Derbyshire — and it was a canal, 
too, one of the filthiest I ever saw. Can’t you realise 
the dramatic interest of the situation now that you 
are confronted with this case of disappearance? I 
have been asking myself ever since I strolled up into 
the library before dinner and read this notice — 
‘What about the other man?’ ”’ 

Philip had commenced a leisurely consumption of 
his first course, and answered without undue haste. 

“Well,” he said, “if this young man Romilly is 
my cousin, it would be the second or third time al- 
ready that he has disappeared. He is an ill- 
balanced, neurotic sort of creature. At times he 
accepts help — even solicits it — from his more pros- 


THE CINEMA MURDER 65 


perous relations, and at times he won’t speak to us. 
But of one thing I am perfectly convinced, and that 
is that there is no man in the world who would be 
less likely to make away with himself. He has a 
nervous horror of death or pain of any sort, and in 
his peculiar way he is much too fond of life ever to 
dream of voluntarily shortening it. On the other 
hand, he is always doing eccentric things. He prob- 
ably set out to walk to London —I have known him 
do it before— and will turn up there in a fort- 
night’s time.” 

Mr. Raymond Greene seemed rather to resent 
having cold water poured upon his melodramatic 
imaginings. He turned to Elizabeth, who had re- 
mained silent during the brief colloquy. 

“What do you think, Miss Dalstan? ” he asked. 
“Don’t you think that, under the circumstances, I 
ought to give information to the British police? ” 

She laughed at him quite good-naturedly, and yet 
in such a way that a less sensitive man than Mr. 
Raymond Greene might well have been conscious of 
the note of ridicule. 

“No wonder you are such a great success in your 
profession!” she observed. ‘‘ You carry the melo- 
dramatic instinct with you, day by day. You see 
everything through the dramatist’s spectacles.” 

“That’s all very well,” Mr. Greene protested, 
“but you saw the two men yourself, and you’ve 
probably read about the case of mysterious dis- 
appearance. Surely you must admit that the coinci- 
dence is interesting? ” 

“¢ Alas!*? she went on, shaking her head, “I am 
afraid I must throw cold water upon your vivid 


66 THE CINEMA MURDER 


imaginings. You see, my eyesight is better than 
yours and I could see the two men distinctly, whilst 
you could only see their figures. One of them, the 
better-dressed, was fair and obviously affluent, and 
the other was a labourer. Neither of them could in 
any way have answered the description of the missing 
man.” 

Mr. Raymond Greene was a little dashed. 

** You didn’t say so at the time,” he complained. 

“TI really wasn’t sufficiently interested,” she told 
him. “ Besides, without knowing anything of Mr. 
Romilly’s cousin, I don’t think any person in the 
world could have had the courage to seek an exit from 
his troubles by means of that canal.” 

* But my point,” Mr. Raymond Greene persisted, 
‘is that it wasn’t suicide at all. I maintain that the 
situation as I saw it presented all the possibilities of 
a different sort of crime.” 

** My cousin hadn’t an enemy in the world except 
himself,’ Philip intervened. 

*¢ And I would give you the filming of my next play 
for nothing,” Elizabeth ventured, “if either of those 
two men could possibly have been an art teacher. .. . 
Can I have a little more oil with my salad, please, 
steward, and I should like some French white wine.” 

Mr. Raymond Greene took what appeared to be a 
positive disappointment very good-naturedly. 

“Well,” he said, “I dare say you are both right, 
and in any case I shouldn’t like to persist in a point 
of view which might naturally enough become dis- 
tressing to our young friend here. Tell you what 
I’ll do to show my penitence. I shall order a bottle 
of wine, and we’ll drink to the welfare of the missing 


THE CINEMA MURDER 67 
Mr. Philip Romilly, wherever he may be. Pommery, 


steward, and bring some ice along.” 

Philip pushed away his whisky and soda. 

* Just in time,” he remarked. “ I?ll drink to poor 
Philip’s welfare, with pleasure, although he hasn’t 
been an unmixed blessing to his family.” 

The subject passed away with the drinking of the 
toast, and with the necessity for a guard upon him- 
self gone, Philip found himself eating and drinking 
mechanically, watching all the time the woman who 
sat opposite to him, who had now engaged Mr. Ray- 
mond Greene in an animated conversation on the 
subject of the suitability for filming of certain recent 
plays. He was trying with a curious intentness to 
study her dispassionately, to understand the nature 
of the charm on which dramatic critics had wasted 
a wealth of adjectives, and of which he himself was 
humanly and personally conscious. She wore a high- 
necked gown of some soft, black material, with a 
little lace at her throat fastened by her only article 
of jewellery, a pearl pin. Her hair was arranged 
in coils, with a simplicity and a precision which to a 
more experienced observer would have indicated the 
possession of a maid of no ordinary qualities. Her 
mouth became more and more delightful every time 
he studied it; her voice, even her method of speech, 
were entirely natural and with a peculiarly fascinat- 
ing inflexion. At times she looked and spoke with 
the light-hearted gaiety of a child ; then again there 
was the grave and cultured woman apparent in her 
well-balanced and thoughtful criticisms. When, at 
the end of the meal, she rose to leave the table, he 
found himself surprised at her height and the slim 


68 THE CINEMA MURDER 


perfection of her figure. His first remark, when 
he joined her upon the stairs, was an almost abrupt 
expression of his thoughts. 

“Tell me,” he exclaimed, “ why were all my first 
impressions of you wrong? ‘To-night you are a 
revelation to me. You are amazingly different.” 

She laughed at him. 

“TIT really can’t do more than show you myself as 
I am,” she expostulated. 

“ Ah! but you are so many women,” he murmured. 

“Of course, if you are going to flatter me! Give 
me a cigarette from my case, please, and strike a 
match, and if you don’t mind struggling with this 
wind and the darkness, we will have our walk. 
There!” she added, as they stood in the com- 
panionway. ‘“ Now don’t you feel as though we 
were facing an adventure? We shan’t be able to see 
a yard ahead of us, and the wind is singing.” 

They passed through up the companionway. She 
took his arm and he suddenly felt the touch of her 
warm fingers feeling for his other hand. He gripped 
them tightly, and his last impression of her face, 
before they plunged into the darkness, was of a queer 
softness, as though she were giving herself up to some 
unexpected but welcome emotion. Her eyes were 
half closed. She had the air of one wrapped in 
silence. So they walked almost the whole length of 
the deck. Philip, indeed, had no impulse or desire 
for speech. All his aching nerves were soothed into 
repose. The last remnants of his ghostly fears had 
been swept away. ‘They were on the windward side of 
the ship, untenanted save now and then by the shad- 
owy forms of other promenaders. The whole ex- 


THE CINEMA MURDER 69 


perience, even the regular throbbing of the engines, 
the swish of the sea, the rising and falling of a lantern 
bound to the top of a fishing smack by which they 
were passing, the distant chant of the changing 
watch, all the night sights and sounds of the sea- 
borne hostel, were unfamiliar and exhilarating. And 
inside his hand, even though given him of her great 
pity, a woman’s fingers lay in his. 

She spoke at last a little abruptly. 

“There is something I must know about,” she 
said. : 

*¢ You have only to ask,” he assured her. 

* Don’t be afraid,” she continued. ‘“ I wish to ask 
you nothing which might give you pain, but I must 
know — you see, I am really such a ordinary woman 
—I must know about some one whom you went to 
visit that day, didn’t you, at Detton Magna? ” 

He answered her almost eagerly. 

“JT want to talk about Beatrice,’? he declared. 
“IT want to tell you everything about her. I know 
that you will understand. We were brought up to- 
gether in the same country place. We were both 
thrown upon the world about the same time. That 
was one thing, I suppose, which made us kindly 
disposed towards one another. We corresponded 
always. I commenced my unsuccessful fight im 
London. I lived —I can’t tell you how — week by 
week, month by month. I ate coarse food, I was a 
hanger-on to the fringe of everything in life which 
appealed to me, fed intellectually on the crumbs of 
free libraries and picture galleries. I met no one of 
my own station —I was at a public school and my 
people were gentlefolk — or tastes. I had no friends 


70 THE CINEMA MURDER 


in London before whom I dared present myself, no 
money to join a club where I might have mixed with 
my fellows, no one to talk to or exchange a single 
idea with — and I wasn’t always the gloomy sort of 
person I have become; in my younger days I loved 
companionship. And the women— my landlady’s 
daughter, with dyed hair, a loud voice, slatternly in 
the morning, a flagrant imitation of her less honest 
sisters at night! Who else? Where was I to meet 
women when I didn’t even know men? I spent my 
poor holidays at Detton Magna. Our very loneli- 
ness brought Beatrice and me closer together. We 
used to walk in those ugly fields around Detton 
Magna and exchanged the story of our woes. She 
was a teacher at the national school. The children 
weren’t pleasant, their parents were worse. The 
drudgery was horrible, and there wasn’t any escape 
for her. Sometimes she would sob as we sat side by 
side. She, too, wanted something out of life, as I 
did, and there seemed nothing but that black wall 
always before us. I think that we clung together 
because we shared a common misery. We talked 
endlessly of a way out. For me what was there? 
There was no one to rob—TI wasn’t clever enough. 
There was no way I could earn money, honestly or 
dishonestly. And for her, buried in that Derby- 
shire village amongst the collieries, where there was 
scarcely a person who hadn’t the taint of the place 
upon them — what chance was there for her? ‘There 
was nothing she could do, either. I knew in my 
heart that we were both ready for evil things, if by 
evil things we could make our escape. And we 
couldn’t. So we tried to lose ourselves in the only 


THE CINEMA MURDER E 


fields left for such as we. We read poetry. We 
tried to live in that unnatural world where the brains 
only are nourished and the body languishes. It was 
a morbid, unhealthy existence, but I plodded along 
and so did she. Then her weekly letters became dif- 
ferent. For the first time she wrote me with re- 
serves. I took a day’s vacation and I went down to 
Detton Magna to sce what had happened.” 

“That was the day,” she interrupted softly, 
6¢ when oe 9 

“That was the day,” he assented. “I remem- 
ber so well getting out of the train and walking up 
that long, miserable street. School wasn’t over, and 
I went straight to her cottage, as I have often done 
before. There was a change. Her cheap furniture 
had gone. It was like one of those little rooms we 
had dreamed of. There was a soft carpet upon the 
floor, Chippendale furniture, flowers, hothouse fruit, 
and on the mantelpiece — the photograph of a man.” 

He paused, and they took the whole one long turn 
along the wind-swept, shadowy deck in silence. 

“Presently she came,” he continued. “ The 
change was there, too. She was dressed simply 
enough, but even I, in my inexperience, knew the dif- 
ference. She came in — she, who had spoken of sui- 
cide a short time ago — singing softly to herself. 
She saw me, our eyes met, and the story was told. 
I knew, and she knew that I knew.” 

It seemed as though something in his tone might 
have grated upon her. Gently, but with a certain 
firmness, she drew her hand away from his. 

“You were very angry, I suppose? ” she mur- 
maured. 


72 THE CINEMA MURDER 


Some instinct told him exactly what was passing 
in her thoughts. In a moment he was on the de- 
fensive. 

**T think,” he said, * that if it had been any other 
man — but listen. ‘The photograph which I took 
from the mantelpiece and threw into the fire was the 
photograph of my own cousin. His father and my 
father were brought up together. My father chose 
the Church, his founded the factory in which most of 
the people in Detton Magna were employed. When 
my grandfather died, it was found that he was penni- 
less. The whole of his money had gone towards 
founding the Douglas Romilly Shoe Company. I 
won’t weary with the details. The business pros- 
pered, but we remained in poverty. When my mother 
died I was left with nothing. My uncle made prom- 
ises and never kept them. He, too, died. My cousin 
and I quarrelled. He and his father both held that 
the money advanced by my grandfather had been a 
gift and not a loan. They offered me a pittance. 
Well, I refused anything. I spoke plain words, and 
that was an end of it. And then I came back and I 
saw his picture, my cousin’s picture, upon the mantel- 
piece. I can see it now and it looks hateful to me. 
All the old fires burned up in me. I remembered my 
father’s death— a pauper he was. I remembered 
how near I had been to starvation. I remembered 
the years I had spent in a garret whilst Douglas had 
idled time away at Oxford, had left there to trifle 
with the business his father had founded, had his 
West End club, hunters, and shooting. It was a 
vicious, mad, jealous hatred, perhaps, but I claim 
that it was human. I went out of that little house 


THE CINEMA MURDER 73 


and it seemed to me that there was a new lust in my 
heart, a new, craving desire. If I had thrown my- 
self into that canal, they might well have called it 
temporary insanity. I didn’t, but I was mad all the 
same. Anything else I did—was temporary in- 
sanity!” 

Her hand suddenly came back again and she leaned 
towards him through the darkness. 

“You poor child,” she whispered. ‘“ Stop there, 
please. Don’t be afraid to think you’ve told me this. 
You see, I am of the world, and I know that we are all 
only human. Now, twice up and down the deck, and 
not a word. ‘Then I shall ask you something.” 

So they passed on, side by side, the touch of her 
fingers keeping this new courage alive in his heart, 
his head uplifted even to the stars towards which 
their rolling mast pointed. It was wonderful, 
this — to tell the truth, to open the door of his 
heart! 

“ Now I am going to ask you something,” she said, 
when they turned for the third time. “ You may 
think it a strange question, but you must please an- 
swer it. To me it is rather important. Just what 
were your feelings for Beatrice? ” 

‘TJ think I was fond of her,” he answered thought- 
fully. ‘I know that I hated her when she came in 
from the schoolhouse — when I understood. Both 
of us, in the days of our joint poverty, had scoffed 
at principles, had spoken boldly enough of sin, but 
I can only say that when she came, when I looked 
into her eyes, I seemed to have discovered a new 
horror in life. I can’t analyse it. I am not sure, 
even now, that I was not more of a beast that I had 


74 THE CINEMA MURDER 


thought myself. I am not sure that part of my rage 
was not because she had escaped and I couldn’t.” 

*¢ But your personal feelings — that is what I want — 
to know about?” she persisted. 

He dug down into his consciousness to satisfy her. 

“Think of what my life in London had been,” he 
reminded her. ‘“‘ There wasn’t a single woman I 
knew, with whom I could exchange a word. All the 
time I loved beautiful things, and beautiful women, 
and the thought of them. I have gone out into the 
streets at nights sometimes and hung around the enr- 
trances to theatres and restaurants just for the 
pleasure of looking at them with other men. It 
didn’t do me any good, you know, but the desire was 
there. I wanted a companion like those other men 
had. Beatrice was the only woman I knew. I didn’t 
choose her. It wasn’t the selective instinct that 
made her attractive to me. It was because she was 
the only one. I never felt anything great when I 
was with her,” he went on hoarsely. ‘I knew very 
well that ours were ordinary feelings. She was in 
the same position that I was. There was no one else 
for her, either. Do you want me to go on? ” 

She hesitated. 

“ Don’t be afraid —I am not quite mad,” he con- 
tinued, “ only Ill answer for you the part of your 
question you don’t put into words. Beatrice was 
nothing to me but an interpretress of her sex. I 
never loved her. If I had, we might in our misery 
have done the wildest, the most foolish things. I will 
tell you why I know so clearly that I never loved 
her. I have known it since you have been kind to 
me, since I have realised what a wonderful thing a 


THE CINEMA MURDER 75 


woman can be, what a world she can make for the 
man who cares, whom she cares for.” | 

Her fingers gripped his tightly. 

** And now,” she said, “I know all that I want to 
know and all that it is well for us to speak of just 
now. Dear friend, will you remember that you are 
sharing your burden with me, and that I, who am 
accounted something in the world and who know life 
pretty thoroughly, believe in you and hope for you.” 

They paused for a moment by the side of the 
steamer rail. She understood so well his speechless- 
ness. She drew her hand away from his and held it 
to his lips. 

** Please kiss my fingers,” she begged. ‘“ That is 
just the seal of our friendship in these days. See 
how quickly we seem to plough our way through the 
water. Listen to the throbbing of that engine, 
always towards a new world for you, my friend. It 
is to be an undiscovered country. Be brave, keep on 
being brave, and remember —” 

The words seemed to die away upon her lips. A 
shower of spray came glittering into the dim light, 
like flakes of snow falling with unexpected violence 
close to them. He drew her cloak around her and 
moved back. 

* Now,” she said, “ I think we will smoke, and per- 
haps, if you made yourself very agreeable to the 
steward in the smoking room, you could get some 
coffee.” 

“One moment,” he pleaded. ‘ Remember what? 
Don’t you realise that there is just one word [I still 
need, one little word to crown all that you have 
said? ” 


76 THE CINEMA MURDER 


She turned her head towards him. The trouble 
and brooding melancholy seemed to have fallen from 
his face. She realised more fully its sensitive lines, 
its poetic, almost passionate charm. She was car- 
ried suddenly away upon a wave of the emotion which 
she herself had created. 

‘Oh, but you know!” she faltered. ‘ You see, 
I trust you even to know when . . . Now your arm, 
please, until we reach the smoking room, and mind 
— I must have coffee.” 


CHAPTER IX 


Philip Romilly, on the last day of the voyage, ex- 
perienced to the full that peculiar sensation of un- 
rest which seems inevitably to prevail when an ocean- 
going steamer is being slowly towed into port. The 
winds of the ocean had been left behind. There was 
a new but pleasant chill in the frosty, sunlit air. 
The great buildings of New York, at which he had 
been gazing for hours, were standing, heterogeneous 
but magnificent, clear-cut against an azure sky. The 
ferry boats, with their amazing human cargo, seemed 
to be screeching a welcome as they churned their 
way across the busy river. Wherever he looked, 
there was something novel and interesting, yet noth- 
ing sufficiently arresting to enable him to forget that 
he was face to face now with the first crisis of his new 
life. Since that brief wireless message on the first 
day out, there had been nothing disquieting in the 
daily bulletins of news, and he had been able to 
appreciate to the full the soothing sense of detach- 
ment, the friendliness of his fellow voyagers, im- 
measurably above all the daily association with 
Elizabeth. He felt like one awaking from a dream 
as he realised that these things were over. At the 
first sight of land, it was as though a magician’s 
wand had been waved, a charm broken. His fellow 
passengers, in unfamiliar costumes, were standing 


78 THE CINEMA MURDER 


about with their eyes glued upon the distant docks. 
A queer sense of ostracism possessed him. Perhaps, 
after all, it had been a dream from which he was now 
slowly awaking. 

He wandered into the lounge to find Elizabeth 
surrounded by a little group of journalists. She 
nodded to him pleasantly and waved a great bunch 
of long-stemmed pink roses which one of them had 
brought to her. Her greeting saved him from de- 
spair. She, at least, was unchanged. 

** See how my friends are beginning to spoil me!” 
she cried out. ‘“ Really, I can’t tell any of you a 
thing more,” she went on, turning back to them, 
*‘ only this, and I am sure it ought to be interesting. 
I have discovered a new dramatist, and I am going 
to produce a play of his within three months, I hope. 
I shan’t tell you his name and I shan’t tell you any- 
thing about the play, except that I find more promise 
in it than anything I have seen or read for months. 
Mr. Romilly, please wait for me,” she called after 
him. ‘I want to point out some of the buildings 
to you.” 

A dark young man, wearing eyeglasses, with a 
notebook and pencil in his hand, swung around. 

“Ts this Mr. Douglas Romilly,” he enquired, “ of 
the Romilly Shoe Company? I am from the New 
York Star. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Romilly. 
You are over here on business, we understand? ” 

Philip was taken aback and for the moment re- 
mained speechless. 

“ We'd like to know your reason, Mr. Romilly, for 
paying us a visit,” the young man continued, “in 
your own words. How long a trip do you intend to 


THE CINEMA MURDER 79 


make, anyway? What might your output be in 
England per week? Women’s shoes and misses’, 
Stith 

Elizabeth intervened swiftly, shaking her finger at 
the journalist. 

“Mr. Harris,” she said, “Mr. Romilly is my 
friend, and I am not going to have him spend these 
few impressive moments, when he ought to be looking 
about him at the harbour, telling you silly details 
about his business. You can call upon him at his 
hotel, if you like— the Waldorf he is going to, I 
believe — and I am sure he will tell you anything 
you want to know.” 

* 'That’s all right, Miss Dalstan,” the young man 
declared soothingly. ‘See you later, Mr. Romilly,” 
he added. ‘“‘ Maybe you’ll let us have a few of your 
impressions to work in with the other stuff.” 

Romilly made light of the matter, but there was a 
slight frown upon his forehead as they passed along 
the curiously stationary deck. 

“TJ am afraid,” he observed, “ that this is going to 
be a terribly hard country to disappear in.” 

“Don’t you believe it,” she replied cheerfully. 
“You arrive here to-day and you are in request 
everywhere. To-morrow you are forgotten — some 
one else arrives. That newspaper man scarcely re- 
members your existence at the present moment. He 
has discovered Mr. Raymond Greene. . . . Tell me, 
why do you look so white and unhappy? ” 

“I am sorry the voyage is over,” he confessed. 

“So am I, for that matter,” she assented. “I 
have loved every minute of the last few days, but 
then we knew all the time, didn’t we, that it was just 


80 THE CINEMA MURDER 


an interlude? The things which lie before us are so 
full of interest.” 

“It is the next few hours which I fear,”? he mut- 
tered gloomily. 

She laughed at him. 

“Foolish! If there had been any one on this side 
who wanted to ask you disagreeable questions, they 
wouldn’t have waited to meet you on the quay. 
They’d have come down the harbour and held us up. 
Don’t think about that for a moment. Think in- 
stead of all the wonderful things we are going to do. 
You will be occupied every minute of the time until 
I come back to New York, and I shall be so anxious 
to see the result. You won’t disappoint me, will 
you?” | 

“I will not,’ he promised. “It was only for 
just a moment that I felt an idiot, It’s exciting, 
you know, this new atmosphere, and the voyage was 
so wonderful, such a perfect rest. It’s like waking 
up, and the daylight seems a little crude.” 

She held out her hand. 

“You see, the gangways are going down,” she 
pointed out. “I can see many of my friends wait- 
ing. Remember, with your new life begins our new 
alliance. Good luck to you, dear friend! ” 

Their fingers were locked for a moment together. 
He looked earnestly into her eyes. 

“Whatever the new life may mean for me,” he 
said fervently, “I shall owe to you.” 

A little rush of people came up the gangway, and 
Elizabeth was speedily surrounded and carried off. 
They came across one another several times in the 


Custom House, and she waved her hand to him gaily. 


THE CINEMA MURDER 81 


Philip went through the usual formalities, superin- 
tended the hoisting of his trunks upon a clumsy 
motor truck, and was himself driven without ques- 
tion from the covered shed adjoining the quay. He 
looked back at the huge side of the steamer, the 
floor of the Custom House, about which were still 
dotted little crowds of his fellow passengers. It 
was the disintegration of a wonderful memory — his 
farewell. ... 


At the Waldorf he found himself greeted with 
unexpected cordiality. The young gentleman to 
whom he applied, after some hesitation, for a room, 
stretched out his hand and welcomed him to Amer- 
ica. 

“So you are Mr. Romilly!” he exclaimed. 
“Well, that’s good. We’ve got your room — Num- 
ber 602, on the ninth floor.” 

** Ninth floor!” Philip gasped. 

“Tf you'd like to be higher up we can change you,” 
the young man continued amiably. “Been several 
people here enquiring for you. A young man from 
the ‘ Boot and Shoe Trades Reporter ’ was here only 
half an hour ago, and here’s a cable. No mail 
yet.” 

He handed the key to a small boy and waved Philip 
away. The small boy proved fully equal to his 
mission. 

“You just step this way, sir,” he invited en- 
couragingly. ‘ Those packages of yours will be all 
right. You don’t need to worry about them.” 

He led the way down a corridor streaming with 
human beings, into a lift from which it appeared to 


82 THE CINEMA MURDER 


Philip that he was shot on to the ninth floor, along 
a thickly-carpeted way into a good-sized and com- 
fortable bedroom, with bathroom attached. 

“Your things will be up directly, sir,” the smal! 
boy promised, holding out his hand. “ T’ll see after 
them myself.” 

Philip expressed his gratitude in a satisfactory 
manner and stood for a few moments at the window. 
Although it was practically his first glimpse of New 
York, the wonders of the panorama over which he 
looked failed even to excite his curiosity. The 
clanging of the surface cars, the roar and clatter of 
the overhead railway, the hooting of streams of auto- 
mobiles, all apparently being driven at breakneck 
speed, alien sounds though they were, fell upon 
deaf ears. He could neither listen nor observe. 
Every second’s delay fretted him. His plans were 
all made. Everything depended upon their being 
carried out now without the slightest hitch. He 
walked a dozen times to the door, waiting for his 
luggage, and when at last it arrived he was on the 
point of using the telephone. He feed the linen- 
coated porters and dismissed them as rapidly as 
possible. Then he ransacked the trunks until he 
found, amidst a pile of fashionable clothing, a quiet 
and inconspicuous suit of dark grey. In the bath- 
room he hastily changed his clothes, selected an ordi- 
nary Homburg hat, and filled a small leather case 
with various papers. He was on the point of leav- 
ing the room when his eyes fell upon the cable. He 
hesitated for a moment, gazed at the superscription, 
shrugged his shoulders, and tore it open. He moved 
to the window and read it slowly, word fer word: 


THE CINEMA MURDER 83 


Just seen Henshaw. Most disturbing interview. 
Tells me you have had notice to reduce overdraft by 
February Ist. Absolutely declines any further advances. 
Payments coming in insufficient meet wages and cur- 
rent liabilitics. No provision for 4th bills, amounting 
sixteen thousand pounds. Have wired London for ac- 
countant. Await your instructions urgently. Suggest 
you cable back the twenty thousand pounds lying our 
credit New York. Please reply. Very worried. Potts. 


Word by word, Philip read the cable twice over. 
Then it fluttered from his fingers on to the table. It 
told its own story beyond any shadow of a mistake. 
His cousin’s great wealth was a fiction. The busi- 
ness to which his own fortune and the whole of his 
grandfather’s money had been devoted, was even now 
tottering. He remembered the rumours he had 
heard of Douglas’ extravagance, his establishment in 
London, the burden of his college debts. And then 
a further light flashed in upon him. Twenty thou- 
sand pounds in America!—lying there, too, for 
Douglas under a false name! He drew out one of 
the documents which he had packed and glanced at 
it more carefully. Then he replaced it, a little 
dazed. Douglas had planned to leave England, then, 
with this crisis looming over him. Why? Philip 
for a moment sat down on the arm of an easy-chair. 
A grim sense of humour suddenly parted his lips. He 
threw back his head and laughed. Douglas Romilly 
had actually been coming to America to disappear! 
It was incredible but it was true. 

He left the cable carefully open upon the dressing- 
table, and, picking up the small leather case, left the 
room. He reached the lift, happily escaping the ob 


84 THE CINEMA MURDER 


servation of the young lady seated at her desk, and 
descended into the hall. Once amongst the crowd 
of people who thronged the corridors, he found it 
perfectly simple to leave the hotel by one of the side 
entrances. He walked to the corner of the street 
and drew a little breath. Then he lit a cigarette 
and strolled along Broadway, curiously light-hearted, 
his spirits rising at every step. He was free for ever 
from that other hateful personality. Mr. Douglas 
Romilly, of the Douglas Romilly Shoe Company, had 
paid his brief visit to America and passed on. 


BOOK II 


CHAPTER I 


After a fortnight of his new life, Philip took stock 
of himself and his belongings. In the first place, 
then, he owned a new name, taken bodily from certain 
documents which he had brought with him from Eng- 
land. Further, as Mr. Merton Ware, he was the 
monthly tenant of a small but not uncomfortable 
suite of rooms on the top story of a residential 
hotel in the purlieus of Broadway. He had also, 
apparently, been a collector of newspapers of certain 
dates, all of which contained some such paragraph 
as this: 


DOUGLAS ROMILLY, WEALTHY ENGLISH 
BOOT MANUFACTURER, DISAPPEARS FROM 
THE WALDORF ASTORIA HOTEL. WALKS 
OUT OF HIS ROOM WITHIN AN HOUR OF 
LANDING AND HAS NOT BEEN HEARD OF 
SINCE. DOWN TOWN HAUNTS SEARCHED. 
FOUL PLAY FEARED. 


SUPERINTENDENT SHIPMAN DeEcLARES HIMSELF BAFFLED 


Early on Monday morning, the police of the city were 
invited to investigate a case of curious disappearance. 
Mr. Douglas Romilly, an English shoe manufacturer, 
who travelled out from England on board the Elletania, 
arrived at the Waldorf Hotel at four o’clock on Satur- 
day afternoon and was shown to the reservation made 
for him. Within an hour he was enquired for by several 


88 THE CINEMA MURDER . 


callers, who were shown to his room without result. 
The apartment was found to be empty and nothing has 
since been seen or heard of Mr. Romilly. The room 
assigned to him, which could only have been occupied 
for a few minutes, has been locked up and the keys 
handed to the police. A considerable amount of luggage 
is in their possession, and certain documents of a some- 
what curious character. From cables received early this 
afternoon, it would appear that the Douglas Romilly 
Shoe Company, one of the oldest established firms in 
England, is in financial difficulties. 


Then there was a paragraph in a paper of later 
date: 


NO NEWS OF DOUGLAS ROMILLY 


The police have been unable to discover any trace of 
the missing Englishman. From further cables to hand, 
it appears that he was in possession of a considerable 
sum of money, which must have been on his person at 
the time of disappearance, and it is alleged that there 
was also a large amount, with which he had intended to 
make purchases for his business, standing to his credit 
at a New York bank. Nothing has since been discov- 
ered, however, amongst his belongings, of the slightest 
financial value, nor does any bank in New York admit 
holding a credit on behalf of the missing man. 


“Perhaps it is time,” Philip murmured, “ that 
these were destroyed.” 

He tore the newspapers into pieces and threw 
them into his waste-basket. On his writing-table were 
forty or fifty closely written pages of manuscript. 
In his pocketbook were sixteen hundred dollars, and 
a document indicating a credit for a very much 
larger amount at the United Bank of New York, in 


THE CINEMA MURDER 89 


favor of Merton Ware and another. The remainder 
of his belongings were negligible. He stood at the 
window and looked out across the city, the city into 
whose labyrinths he was so eager to penetrate — the 
undiscovered country. By day and night its voices 
were in his ears, the rattle and roar of the overhead 
railway, the clanging of the street cars, the heavy 
traffic, the fainter but never ceasing foot-fall of the 
multitudes. He had sat there before dawn and 
watched the queer, pinky-white light steal with ever 
widening fingers through the darkness, heard the 
yawn of the city as it seemed to shiver and tremble 
before the battle of the day. At twilight he had 
watched the lights spring up one by one, at first like 
pin pricks in the distance, growing and widening un- 
til the grotesque shapes of the buildings from which 
they sprung had faded into nothingness, and there 
was left only a velvet curtain of strangely-lit stars. 
At a giddy distance below he could trace the blaze 
of Broadway, the blue lights flashing from the elec- 
tric wires as the cable cars rushed back and forth, 
the red and violet glimmer of the sky signs. He 
knew it all so well, by morning, by noon and night; 
in rainstorm, storms which he had watched come up 
from oceanwards in drifting clouds of vapour; and 
in sunshine, clear, brilliant sunshine, a little hard 
and austere, to his way of thinking, and unseason: 
able. 

“‘ A week,”? he muttered. ‘“‘ She said a week. To- 
night I will go out.” 

He looked at himself in the glass. He wore ng 
longer the well-cut clothes of Mr. Douglas Romilly’s 
Saville Row tailor, but a ready-made suit of Schmitt 


go THE CINEMA MURDER 


& Mayer’s business reach-me-downs, an American 
felt hat and square-toed shoes. 

“She said a week,” he repeated. ‘It’s a fort- 
night to-day. I?ll go to the restaurant at the cor- 
ner. I must find out for myself what all this noise 
means, what the city has to say.” 

He turned towards the door and then stopped 
short. For almost the first time since he had taken 
up his quarters here, the lift had stopped outside. 
There was a brief pause, then his bell rang. Foi 
a moment Philip hesitated. ‘Then he stepped for: 
ward and opened the door, looking out enquiringly a? 
his caller. 

“You Mr. Merton Ware? ” 

He admitted the fact briefly. His visitor was a 
young woman dressed in a rather shabby black in- 
door dress, over which she wore an apron. She was 
without either hat or gloves. Her fingers were 
stained with purple copying ink, and her dark hair 
was untidily arranged. 

“TI live two stories down below,’’? she announced, 
handing him a little card. ‘ Miss Martha Grimes 
— that’s my name — typewriter and stenographer, 
you see. ‘The waiter who brings our meals told me 
he thought you were some way literary, so I just 
stepped up to show you my prospectus. If you’ve 
any typewriting you want doing, I’m on the spot, 
and I don’t know as you’d get it done much cheaper 
anywhere else — or better.” 

There was nothing particularly ingratiating 
about Miss Martha Grimes, but, with the exception 
of a coloured waiter, she happened to be the first 
human being with whom Philip had exchanged a word 


39 


THE CINEMA MURDER gi 


for several days. He felt disinclined to hurry her 
away. 

*““Come in,” he invited, holding the door open. 
“So you do typing, eh? What sort of a machine 
do you use?” 

“Remington,” she answered. “It’s a bit knocked 
about — a few of the letters, I mean — but I’ve got 
some violet ink and I can make a manuscript look all 
right. Half a dollar a thousand words, and a 
quarter for carbon copies. Of course, if you’d got 
a lot of stuff,” she went on, her eyes lighting hope- 
fully upon the little collection of manuscript upon 
his table, “ I might quote you a trifle less.” 

He picked up some of his sheets and glanced at 
them. 

“Sooner or later,” he admitted, “I shall have 
to have this typed. It isn’t quite ready yet, 
though.” 

He was struck by the curious little light of antic- 
ipation which somehow changed her face, and which 
passed away at his last words. Under pretence of 
gathering together some of those loose pages, he ex- 
amined her more closely and realised that he had 
done her at first scant justice. She was very thin, 
and the expression of her face was spoilt by the dis- 
contented curve of her lips. The shape of her head, 
however, was good. Her dark hair, notwithstand- 
ing its temporary disarrangement, was of beautiful 
quality, and her eyes, though dull and _ spiritless- 
looking, were large and full of subtle promise. He 
replaced the sheets of manuscript. 

*¢ Sit down for a moment,” he begged. 

“Td rather stand,” she replied. 


92 THE CINEMA MURDER 


* Just as you please,” he assented, smiling. “I 
was just wondering what to do about this stuff.” 

She hesitated for a moment, then a little sulkily 
she seated herself. 

“I suppose you think I’m a pretty forward young 
person to come up here and beg for work. I don’t 
care if you do,” she went on, swinging her foot back 
and forth. ‘One has to live.” 

“I am very pleased that you came,” he assured 
her. “It will be a great convenience to me to have 
my typing done on the premises, and although I am 
afraid there won’t be much of it, you shall certainly 
do what there is.” 

“‘ Story writer? ” she enquired. 

“I am only a beginner,” he told her. ‘* This work 
I am going to give you is a play.” 

She looked at him with a shade of commiseration 
in oh face. 

BU aplepue a job, ain’t it, writing for the stage un- 
less you’ve got some sort of pull? ” 

“‘ This is my first effort,” he explained. 

“‘ Well, it’s none of my business,” she said gloomily. 
“ All I want is the typing of it, only you should see 
some of the truck I’ve had! I’ve hated to send in 
the bill. Waste of good time and paper! I don’t 
suppose yours is like that, but there ain’t much 
written that’s any good, anyway.” 

“ You’re a hopeful young person, aren’t you? ” 
he remarked, taking a cigarette from the mantelpiece 
and lighting it. -“ Have one?” 

“No, thank you!” she replied, rising briskly to 
her feet. “I’m not that sort that sits about and 
smokes cigarettes with strange young men. If you'll 


THE CINEMA MURDER 93 


let me know when that work’s going to be ready, Vl 
send the janitor up for it.” 

He smiled deprecatingly. 

“You’re not afraid of me, by any chance, are 
you?” he asked. 

Her eyes glowed with contempt as she looked him 
up and down. 

“ Afraid of you, sir!” she repeated. “I should 
say not! I’ve met all sorts of men and I know some- 
thing about them.” 

“Then sit down again, please,” he begged. 

She hesitated for a moment, then subsided once 
more unwillingly into the chair. 

** Don’t know as I want to stay up here gossiping,” 
she remarked. ‘ You’d much better be getting on 
with your work. Give me one of those cigarettes, 
anyway,” she added abruptly. 

“Do you live in the building? ” he enquired, as he 
obeyed her behest. 

“Two flats below with pop,” she replied. ‘“ He’s 
a bad actor, very seldom in work, and he drinks. 
There are just the two of us. Now you know as 
much as is good for you. You’re English, ain’t 
you?” 7 

“TI am,” Philip admitted. 

* Just out, too, by the way you talk.” 

** I have been living in Jamaica,” he told her, “ for 
many years —clerk in an office there.” 

* Better have stayed where you were, I should 
think, if you’ve come here hoping to make a living 
by that sort of stuff.” 

* Perhaps you’re right,” he agreed, “ but you see 
I am here — been here a week or two, in fact.” 


04 THE CINEMA MURDER 


*¢ Done much visiting around? ” she enquired. 

“I’ve scarcely been out,” he confessed. ‘* You 
see, I don’t know the city except from my windows. 
It’s wonderful from here after twilight.” 

“Think so,” she replied dully. ‘It’s a hard, 
hammering, brazen sort of place when you’re living 
in it from hand to mouth. Not but what we don’t 
get along all right,” she added, a little defiantly. 
* 1m not grumbling.” 

‘“*¥ am sure you’re not,” he assented soothingly. 
* Tell me — to-night I am a little tired of work. 
I thought of going out. Be a Good Samaritan and 
tell me where to find a restaurant in Broadway, some- 
where where crowds of people go but not what they 
call a fashionable place. I want to get some dinner 
—TI haven’t had anything decent to eat for I don’t 
know how long — and I want to breathe the same 
atmosphere as other people.” 

She looked at him a little enviously. 

“How much do you want to spend?” she asked 
bluntly. 

“ T don’t know that that really matters very much. 
J have some money. Things are more expensive over 
here, aren’t they? ” 

“JT should go to the New. Martin House,” she 
advised him, “right at the corner of this block. 
It’s real swell, and they say the food’s wonder- 
ful.” 

*‘T could go as I am, I suppose? ” he asked, glanc- 
ing down at his clothes. 

She stared at him wonderingly. 

“Say, where did you come from?” she exclaimed. 
“You ain’t supposed to dress yourself out in glad 


THE CINEMA MURDER 95 


clothes for a Broadway restaurant, not even the best 
of them.” 

** Have you been to this place yourself? ” he en- 
HA 

** Nope! ” 
** Come with me,” he invited suddenly. 

She arose at once to her feet and threw the re- 
mains of her cigarette into the grate. 

“Say, Mr. Ware,” she pronounced, “I ain’t that 
sort, and the sooner you know it the better, especially 
if I’m going to do your work. I'll be going.” 

“Look here,” he remonstrated earnestly, “ you 
don’t seem to understand me altogether. What do 
you mean by saying you’re not that sort? ” 

* You know well enough,” she answered defiantly. 
“I guess you’re not proposing to give me a supper 
out of charity, are you?” 

“I am asking you to accompany me,” he declared, 
* because I haven’t spoken to a human being for a 
week, because I don’t know a soul in New York, be- 
cause I’ve got enough money to pay for two dinners, 
and because I am fiendishly lonely.” 

She looked at him and it was obvious that she was 
more than half convinced. Her brightening expres- 
sion transformed her face. She was still hesitating, 
but her inclinations were apparent. 

“Say, you mean that straight?” she asked. 
“You won’t turn around afterwards and expect a 
lot of soft sawder because you’ve bought me a 
meal? ” 

* Don’t be a silly little fool,” he answered good- 
humouredly. ‘“ All I want from you is to sit by my 
side and talk, and tell me what to order.” 


96 THE CINEMA MURDER 


Her face suddenly fell. 7 

“No good,” she sighed. “ Haven’t got any 
clothes.” 

“If I am going like this,” he expostulated, “ why 
can’t you go as you are? Take your apron off. 
You'll be all right.” 

“'There’s my black hat with the ribbon,” she re- 
minded herself. ‘ It’s no style, and Stella said yes- 
terday she wouldn’t be seen in a dime show in it.” 

“Never you mind about Stella,” he insisted con- 
fidently. ‘“ You clap it on your head and come 
along.” 

She swung towards the door. 

“Meet you in the hall in ten minutes,” she prom- 
ised. ‘* Can’t be any quicker. This is your trouble, 
you know. I didn’t invite myself.” 

Philip opened the door, a civility which seemed to 
somewhat embarrass her. 

‘I shall be waiting for you,” he declared cheer- 
fully. ) 


CHAPTER II 


Philip stepped into his own little bedroom and 
made scanty preparations for this, his first excur- 
sion. ‘Then he made his way down into the shabby 
hall and was seated there on the worn settee when 
his guest descended. She was wearing a hat which, 
so far as he could judge, was almost becoming. Her 
gloves, notwithstanding their many signs of mend- 
ing, were neat, her shoes carefully polished, and al- 
though her dress was undeniably shabby, there was 
something in her carriage which pleased him. Her 
eyes were fixed upon his from the moment she stepped 
from the lift. She was watching for his expression 
half defiantly, half anxiously. 

* Well, you see what I look like,” she remarked 
brusquely. ‘“ You can back out of it, if you 
want to.” 

“ Don’t be silly,” he replied. ‘ You look quite all 
right. I’m not much of a beau myself, you know. 
I bought this suit over the counter the other day, 
without being measured for it or anything.” 

“ Guess you ain’t used to ready-made clothes,” 
she observed, as they stepped outside. 

“You see, in England — and the Colonies,” he 
added hastily, “ things aren’t so expensive as here. 
What a wonderful city this is of yours, Martha!” 

“Miss Grimes, please,” she corrected him. 


98 THE CINEMA MURDER 


“IT beg your pardon,” he apologised. 

“'That’s just what I was afraid of,” she went on 
querulously. ‘“‘ You’re beginning already. You 
think because you’re giving me a meal, you can take 
all sorts of liberties. Calling me by my Christian 
name, indeed! ” 

“It was entirely a slip,” he assured her. “ Tell 
me what theatre that is across the way? ” 

She answered his question and volunteered other 
pieces of information. Philip gazed about him, as 
they walked along Broadway, with the eager curi- 
osity of a provincial sightseer. She laughed at him 
a little scornfully. 

* You'll get used to all the life and bustle pres- 
ently,” she told him. ‘It won’t seem so wonderful 
to you when you walk along here without a dollar to 
bless yourself with, and your silly plays come tum 
bling back. Now this is the Martin House. My! 
Looks good inside, don’t it? ” 

They crossed the threshold, Philip handed his hat 
to the attendant and they stood, a little undecided, at 
the top of the brilliantly-lit room. A condescend- 
ing maitre d’hétel showed them to a retired table in 
a distant corner, and another waiter handed them a 
menu. | 

“You know, half of this is unintelligible to me,” 
Philip confessed. ‘ You’ll have to do the ordering 
—— that was our bargain, you know.” 

“You must tell me how much you want to spend, 
then? ” she insisted. 

“Twill not,” he answered firmly. ‘* What I want 
is a good dinner, and for this once in my life I don’t 
care what it costs. T’ve a few hundred dollars in 


THE CINEMA MURDER 99 


my pocket, so you needn’t be afraid I shan’t be able 
to pay the bill. You just order the things you like, 
and a bottle of claret or anything else you prefer.” 

She turned to the waiter, and, carefully studying 
the prices, she gave him an order. 

“One portion for two, remember, of the fish and 
the salad,’ she enjoined. “Two portions of the 
chicken, if you think one won’t be enough.” 

She leaned back in her place. 

“It’s going to cost you, when you’ve paid for the 
claret, a matter of four dollars and fifty cents, this 
dinner,” she said, “ and I guess you’ll have to give 
the waiter a quarter. Are you scared? ” 

He laughed at her once more. 

* Not a bit!” 

She looked at his long, delicate fingers — studied 
him for a moment. Nothwithstanding his clothes, 
there was an air of breeding about him, unconceal- 
able, a thing apart, even, from his good looks. 

“Clerk, were you? ” she remarked. ‘‘ Seems to 
me you’re used to spending two dollars on a meal all 
right. I’m not!” 

“Neither am I,” he assured her. ‘‘ One doesn’t 
have much opportunity of spending money in— 
Jamaica.” 

** You seem kind of used to it, somehow,” she per- 
sisted. ‘* Have you come into money, then? ” 

** ve saved a little,” he explained, with a rather 
grim smile, “ and I’ve — well, shall we say come into 
some? ” 

* Stolen it, maybe,” she observed indifferently. 

** Should you be horrified if I told that I had? ” 

“JT don’t know,” she answered. ‘“ I’m one of those 


100 THE CINEMA MURDER 


who’s lived honest, and I sometimes wonder whether 
it pays.” 

“It’s a great problem,” he sighed. 

“It is that,” she admitted gloomily. ‘ Tve got a 
friend — she used to live in our place, just below me 
— Stella Kimbell, her name is. She and I learnt our 
typewriting together and started in the same office. 
We stood it, somehow, for three years, sometimes 
office work, sometimes at home. We didn’t have 
much luck. It was always better for me than for 
Stella, because she was good-looking, and I’m not.” 

“TIT shouldn’t say that,’ he remonstrated. 
** You’ve got beautiful eyes, you know.” 

“You stop it!” she warned him firmly. “ My 
eyes are my own, and I'll trouble you not to make re- 
marks about them.” 

“Sorry,” Philip murmured, duly crushed. 

“The men were after her all the time,” the girl 
continued, reminiscently. ‘* Last place we were at, 
a drygoods store not far from here, the heads of the 
departments used to make her life fairly miserable. 
She held out, though, but what with fines, and one 
thing or another, they forced her to leave. So I did 
the same. We drifted apart then for a while. She 
got a job at an automobile place, and I was working 
at home. I remember the night she came to me — I 
was all alone. Pop had got a three-line part some- 
where and was bragging about it at all the bars in 
Broadway. Stella came in quite suddenly and 
almost out of breath. 

** Kid,’ she said, ‘ I’m through with it.’ 

“* What do you mean?’ I asked her. 

*¢ Then she threw herself down on the sofa and she 


THE CINEMA MURDER Ior 


sobbed —I never heard a girl cry like that in all 
my life. She shrieked, she was pretty nearly in 
hysterics, and I couldn’t get a word out of her. 
When she was through at last, she was all limp and 
white. She wouldn’t tell me anything. She simply 
sat and looked at the stove. Presently she got up 
to go. I put my hands on her shoulders and I 
forced her back in the chair. 

**You’ve got to tell me all about it, Stella,’ I 
insisted. 

“ And then of course I heard the whole story. 
She’d got fired again. These men are devils! ” 

“Don’t tell me more about it unless you like,” he 
begged sympathetically. ‘“ Where is she now? ” 

“In the chorus of ‘ Three Frivolous Maids.’ She 
comes in here regularly.” 

“Sorry for herself? ” 

‘Not she! Last time I saw her she told me she 
wouldn’t go back into an office, or take on typewrit- 
ing again, for anything in the world. She was look- 
ing prettier than ever, too. There’s a swell chap 
almost crazy about her. Shouldn’t wonder if she 
hasn’t got an automobile.” 

** Well, she answers our question one way, then,” 
he remarked thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, Miss Grimes, 
is everything to eat in America as good as this fish? ” 

** Some cooking here,” she observed, looking rather 
regretfully at her empty plate. “I told you things 
were all right. There’s grilled chicken — Maryland 
chicken — coming, and green corn.” 

** Have I got to eat the corn like that man oppo- 
site? ” he asked anxiously. 

* You can eat it how you like,” she answered. 


102 THE CINEMA MURDER 


“ Watch me, if you want to. I don’t care. I ain’t 
tasted green corn since I can remember, and I’m 
going to enjoy it.” 

“You don’t like your claret, I’m afraid,” he re- 
marked. 

She sipped it and set down the glass a little dis- 
paragingly. 

“If you want to know what I would like,” she 
said, “it’s just a Martini cocktail. We don’t 
drink wines over here as much as you folk, I guess.” 

He ordered the cocktails at once. Every now 
and then he watched her. She ate delicately but 
with a healthy and unashamed appetite. A little 
colour came into her cheeks as the room grew 
warmer, her lower lip became less uncompromising. 
Suddenly she laid down her knife and fork. Her 
eyes were agleam with interest. She pulled at his 
sleeve. 

“Say, that’s Stella!” she exclaimed excitedly. 
“Look, she’s coming this way! Don’t she look stun- 
ning ! ” 

A girl, undeniably pretty, with dark, red-gold 
hair, wearing a long ermine coat and followed by a 
fashionably dressed young man, was making her way 
up the room. She suddenly recognised Philip’s com- 
panion and came towards her with outstretched 
hand. 

“Tf it isn’t Martha!” she cried. ‘“Isn’t this 
great! Felix, this is Miss Grimes — Martha Grimes, 
you know,” she added, calling to the young man who 
was accompanying her. ‘‘ You must remember — 
why, what’s the matter with you, Felix? ” 

She broke off in her speech. Her companion was 


THE CINEMA MURDER t03 


staring at Philip, who was returning his scrutiny 
with an air of mild interrogation. 

“Say,” the young man enquired, “ didn’t I meet 
you on the Elletania? Aren’t you Mr. Douglas 
Romilly? ” 

Philip shook his head. 

“My name is Ware,” he pronounced, “ Merton 
Ware. I have certainly never been on the Elletania 
and I don’t remember having met you before.” 

The young man whose name was Felix appeared 
almost stupefied. 

* Gee whiz!” he muttered. ‘* Excuse me, sir, but 
I never saw such a likeness before — never! ” 

*“€ Well, shake hands with Miss Grimes quickly and 
come along,” Stella enjoined. ‘‘ Remember I only 
have half an hour for dinner now. You coming to 
see the show, Martha? ” 

“Not to-night,” that young woman declared 
firmly. 

The two passed on after a few more moments of 
amiable but, on the part of the young man, some- 
what dazed conversation. Philip had resumed the 
consumption of his chicken. He raised an over-filled 
glass to his lips steadily and drank it without spilling 
a drop. 

““Mistook me for some one,” he remarked coolly. 

She nodded. 

“Man who disappeared from the Waldorf 
Astoria. They made quite a fuss about him in the 
newspapers. I shouldn’t have said you were the 
least like him — to judge by his pictures, anyway.” 

Philip shrugged his shoulders. He seemed very 
little interested. 


104 THE CINEMA MURDER 


‘**T don’t often read the newspapers. . . . So that 
is Stella.” 

“That is Stella,” she assented, a little defiantly. 
*“ And if I were she—I mean if I were as good- 
looking as she is —I’d be in her place.” 

“I wonder whether you would?” he observed 
thoughtfully. 

**Oh! don’t bother me with your problems,” she 
replied. ‘* Does it run to coffee? ” 

“Of course it does,” he agreed, “ and a liqueur, if 
you like.” 

“If you mean a cordial, I’ll have some of that 
green stuff,” she decided. ‘* Don’t know when I shall 
get another dinner like this again.” 

“Well, that rests with you,” he assured her. “I 
am very lonely just now. Later on it will be differ- 
ent. We'll come again next week, if you like.” 

* Better see how you feel about it when the time 
comes,” she answered practically. ‘ Besides, I’m 
not sure they’d let me in here again. Did you see 
Stella’s coat? Fancy feeling fur like that up 
against your chin! Fancy —” 

She broke off and sipped her coffee broodingly. 

“Those things are immaterial in themselves,” he 
reminded her. “It’s just a question how much 
happiness they have brought her, whether the thing 
pays or not.” 

“Of course it pays!’ she declared, almost pas- 
sionately. ‘* You’ve never seen my rooms or my 
drunken father. I can tell you what they’re like, 
though. They’re ugly, they’re tawdry, they’re un- 
tidy, when I’ve any work to do, they’re scarcely 
clean. Our meals are thrown at us — we’re always 


THE CINEMA MURDER 105 


behind with the rent. There isn’t anything to look 
at or listen to that isn’t ugly. You haven’t known 
what it is to feel the grim pang of a constant hideous- 
ness crawling into your senses, stupefying you 
almost with a sort of misery — oh, I can’t describe 
i 

“T have felt all those things,” he said quietly. 

“ What did you do?” she demanded. ‘“ No, per- 
haps you had luck. Perhaps it’s not fair to ask you 
that. It wouldn’t apply. What should you do if 
you were me, if you had the chance to get out of it 
all the way that she has? ” 

“TI am not a woman,” he reminded her simply. 
“Tf I answer you as an outsider, a passer-by — 
mind, though, one who thinks about men and women 
—TI should say try one of her lesser sins, one of the 
sins that leaves you clean. Steal, for instance.” 

“And go to prison!” she protested angrily. 
* How much better off would you be there, I wonder, 
and what about when you came out? Pooh! Pay 
your bill and let’s get out of this.” 

He obeyed, and they made their way into the 
crowded street. He paused for a moment on the 
pavement. ‘The pleasure swirl was creeping a little 
into his veins. 

“Would you like to go to a theatre? ” he asked. 

She shook her head. 

“You do as you like. I’m going home. You 
needn’t bother about coming with me, either.” 

“Don’t be foolish,” he protested. ‘I only men- 
tioned a theatre for your sake. Come along.” 

They walked down Broadway and turned into 
their own street. They entered the tenement build- 


106 THE CINEMA MURDER 


ing together and stepped into the lift. She held out 
her hand a little abruptly. 

“Good night!” 

** Good night!” he answered. ‘ You get out first, 
don’t you? Ill polish that stuff up to-night, the 
first part of it, so that you can get on with the 
typing.” } 

Some half-developed fear which had been troubling 
her during the walk home, seemed to have passed. 
Her face cleared. 

“ Don’t think I am ungrateful,” she begged, as the 
lift stopped. “I haven’t had a good time like this 
for many months. Thank you, Mr. Ware, and good 
night! ” 

She stepped through the iron gates on to her own 
floor, and Philip swung up to his rooms. Somehow, 
he entered almost light-heartedly. The roar of the 
city below was no longer provocative. He felt as 
though he had stretched out a hand towards it, as 
though he were in the way of becoming one of its 
children. 


CHAPTER III 


A few nights later Philip awoke suddenly to find 
himself in a cold sweat, face to face with all the 
horrors of an excited imagination. Once more he 
felt his hand greedy for the soft flesh of the man he 
hated, tearing its way through the stiff collar, felt 
the demoniacal strength shooting down his arm, the 
fever at his finger tips. He saw the terrified face of 
his victim, a strong man but impotent in his grasp; 
heard the splash of the turgid waters; saw himself, 
his lust for vengeance unsatisfied, peering down- 
wards through the dim and murky gloom. It was 
not only a physical nightmare which seized him. 
His brain, too, was his accuser. He saw with a 
hideous clarity that even the excuse of motive was 
denied him. It was a sense of personal loss which 
had driven him out on to that canal path, a mur- 
derer at heart. It was something of which he had 
been robbed, an acute and burning desire for venge- 
ance, personal, entirely egotistical. It was not the 
wrong to the woman which he resented, had there 
been any wrong. It was the agony of his own per- 
sonal misery. He rose from his bed and stamped 
up and down his little chamber in a fear which was 
almost hysterical. He threw wide open the windows, 
heedless of a driving snowstorm. ‘The subdued mur- 
mur of the city, with its paling lights, brought him 


108 THE CINEMA MURDER 


no relief. He longed frantically for some one who 
knew the truth, for Elizabeth before any one, with 
her soft, cool touch, her gentle, protective sym- 
pathy. He was a fool to think he could live alone 
like this, with such a burden to bear! Perhaps it 
would not be for long. The risks were many. At 
any moment he might hear the lift stop, steps across 
the corridor, the ring at his bell, the plainly-clad, 
businesslike man outside, with his formal questions, 
his grim civility. He fumbled about in his little 
dressing-case until he came to a small box contain- 
ing several white pills. He gripped them in his hand 
and looked around, listening. No, it was fancy! 
There was still no sound in the building. When at 
last he went back to bed, however, the little box was 
tightly clenched in his hands. 

In the morning he. went through his usual pro- 
gramme. He arose soon after eight, lighted his 
little spirit lamp, made his coffee, cut some bread 
and butter, and breakfasted. Then he lit a cigarette 
and sat down at his desk. His imagination, however, 
seemed to have burnt itself out in the night. Ideas 
and phrases were denied to him. He was thankful, 
about eleven o’clock, to hear a ring at the bell and 
find Martha Grimes outside with a little parcel under 
her arm. She was wearing the same shabby black 
dress and her fingers were stained with copying ink. 
Her almost too luxuriant hair was ill-arranged and 
untidy. Even her eyes seemed to have lost their 
lustre. 

**Y’ve finished,” she announced, handing him the 
parcel. ‘ Better look and see whether it’s all right. 
I can’t do it up properly till I’ve had the whole.” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 109 


He cut the string and looked at a few of the sheets. 
The typing was perfect. He began to express his 
approval but she interrupted him. 

“It’s better stuff than I expected,” she declared 
grudgingly. “I thought you were only one of 
these miserable amateurs. Where did you learn to 
write like that? ” 

Somehow, her praise was like a tonic. 

** Do you like it? ” he asked eagerly. 

“Oh! my likes or dislikes don’t matter,” she re- 
plied. “It’s good stuff. You'll find the account in 
there. If you’d like to pay me, Id like to have the 
money.” 

He glanced at the neat little bill and took out his 
pocketbook. 

** Sit down for a minute,” he begged. ‘ I’m stuck 
this morning — can’t write a line. Take my easy~ 
chair and smoke a cigarette —I have nothing else 
to offer you.” 

For a moment she seemed about to refuse. Then 
she flung herself into his easy-chair, took a cigarette, 
and, holding it between her lips, almost scarlet 
against the pallor of her cheeks, stretched upwards 
towards the match which he was holding. 

“Stella and her boy were over to see me last 
night,” she announced, a little abruptly. 

“The young lady with the ermines,” he mur- 
mured. 

“ And her boy, Felix Martin. It was through 
him they came —I could see that all right. He was 
trying all the time to pump me about you.” 

*¢ About me? ” 

“Oh! you needn’t trouble to look surprised,” she 


IIo THE CINEMA MURDER 


remarked. ‘I guess you remember the bee he had 
in his bonnet that night.” 

** Mistook me for some one, didn’t he?” Philip 
murmured. 

She nodded. 

** Kind of queer you don’t read our newspapers! 
It was a guy named Romilly — Douglas Romilly — 
who disappeared from the Waldorf Hotel. Strange 
thing about it,” she went on, “is that I saw photo- 
graphs of him in the newspapers, and I can’t recog- 
nise even a likeness.” 

“This Mr. Felix Martin doesn’t agree with you, 
apparently,” Philip observed. 

“He don’t go by the photographs,” Martha 
Grimes explained. ‘“ He believes that he crossed 
from Liverpool with this Mr. Douglas Romilly, and 
that you,’ she continued, crossing her legs and 
smoothing down her skirt to hide her shabby shoes, 
‘** are so much like him that he came down last night 
to see if there was anything else he could find out 
from me before he paid a visit to police head- 
quarters.” 


There was a moment’s silence. Philip was 
apparently groping for a match, and the girl was 
keeping her head studiously turned away from him. 

** What business is it of his? ” 

“There was a reward offered. Don’t know as 
that would make much difference to Felix Martin, 
though. According to Stella’s account, he is pretty 
well a millionaire already.” 

“It would be more useful to you, wouldn’t it?” 


Philip remarked. 


THE CINEMA MURDER | III 


** Five hundred dollars!” Martha sighed. ‘“ Don’t 
seem to me just now that there’s much in the world 
you couldn’t buy with five hundred dollars.” 

** Well, what did you tell Mr. Felix Martin? ” 

* Oh, I lied, sure! He’d found out he date you 
came into your rooms here—the duy this man 
Romilly disappeared — but I told him that I'd known 
you and done work for you before then — long 
enough before the Elletania ever reached New York. 
That kind of stumped him.” 

* Why did you do that?” Philip demanded. 

“Dunno,” the girl replied, with a shrug of the 
shoulders. ‘“ Just a fancy. I guessed you wouldn’t 
want him poking around.” 

** But supposing I had been Douglas Romilly, you 
might at least have divided the reward,” he reminded 
her. 

‘‘There’s money and money,” Martha declared. 
“We spoke of that the other day. Stella’s got 
money — now. Well, she’s welcome. My time will 
come, I suppose, but if I can’t have clean money, I 
haven’t made up my mind yet whether I wouldn’é 
rather try the Hudson on a foggy morning.” 

“Well, I am not Douglas Romilly, anyway,” 
Philip announced. 

She looked up at him almost for the first time 
since her entrance. 

“1 kind of thought you were,” she admitted. “I 
might have saved my lies, then.” 

He shook his head. 

“You have probably saved me from more than 
you know of,” he replied. “I am not Douglas 
Romilly, but —” 


112 THE CINEMA MURDER 


“'You’re not Merton Ware, either,” she inter- 
rupted. 

“Quite right,” he agreed. “I started life as 
Philip Merton Ware the day I took these rooms, and 
if the time should come,” he went on, “ that any one 
seriously ‘set about the task of finding out exactly 
who I was before I was Merton Ware, you and I 
might as well take that little journey — was it to 
the Hudson, you said, on a foggy morning? — to- 
gether.” 

They sat in complete silence for several moments, 
Then she threw the end of her cigarette into the fire. 

* Well, I’m glad I didn’t lie for nothing,” she de- 
clared. “I didn’t quite tumble to the Douglas 
Romilly stunt, though. They say he has left his 
business bankrupt in England and brought a for- 
tune out here. You don’t look as though you were 
overdone with it.” 

“I certainly haven’t the fortune that Douglas 
Romilly is supposed to have got away with,” he said 
quietly. ‘I have enough money for my present 
needs, though — enough, by-the-by, to pay you for 
this typing,” he added, counting out the money upon 
the table. 

“* Any more stuff ready? ” 

“ With luck there’ll be some this afternoon,” he 
promised her. “I had a bad night last night, but 
I think I'll be able to work later in the day.” 

She looked at him curiously, at his face, absolutely 
devoid of colour, his eyes, restless and overbright, 
his long, twitching fingers. 

‘“‘ Bad conscience or drugs?” she asked. 

“‘ Bad conscience,” he acknowledged. ‘“ I’ve been 


THE CINEMA MURDER 113 


where you have been — Miss Grimes. I looked over 
the edge and I jumped. I’d stay where you are, if 
I were you.” 

“Maybe I shall, maybe I shan’t,” she replied 
doggedly. ‘Stella wants to bring a boy around to 
see me. ‘ You bring him,’ I said. ‘ Dll talk to him.’ 
Then she got a little confused. Stella’s kind, in her 
way. She came back after Mr. Martin had gone 
down the passage. ‘See here, kid,’ she said, ‘ you 
know as well as I do I can’t bring any one round 
to see you while you are sitting around in those rags. 
Let me lend you—’ Well, I stopped her short at 
that. ‘My own plumes or none at all,’ I told 
her, ‘and I’d just as soon he didn’t come, any- 
way.” 99 

“You’re a queer girl,” Philip exclaimed. 
** Where’s your father to-day? ” 

“Usual place,” she answered,—“‘in bed. He 
never gets up till five.” 

** Let me order lunch up here for both of us, from 
the restaurant,” he suggested. 

She shook her head. 

* No, thanks! ” 

“© Why not? ” he persisted. 

“I’m going round to the office to see if I can get 
any extra work.” 

“But you’ve got to lunch some time,” he persisted. 

She laughed a little hardly. 

“Have I? We girls haven’t got to eat like you 
men. I'll call up towards the evening and see if 
you’ve anything ready for me.” 

She was gone before he could stop her. He 
turned back to his desk and seated himself. The 


114 THE CINEMA MURDER 


sight of his last finished sentence presented itself 
suddenly in a new light. There was a suggestive- 
ness about it which was almost poignant. He took 
up his pen and began to write rapidly. 


CHAPTER IV 


It was a few minutes after six that evening when 
Philip was conscious of a knock at his door. He 
swung around in his chair, blinking a little. 

** Come in!” 

Martha Grimes entered. She was in outdoor 
apparel, that is to say she wore her hat and a long 
mackintosh. She remained standing upon the 
threshold. 

** Just looked up to see if you’ve got any more 
work ready,” she explained. 

He sprang to his feet and stood there, for a mo- 
ment, unsteadily. 

“Come in and shut the door,” he ordered. 
“Look! Look!” he added, pointing to his table. 
“Thirty-three sheets! D’ve been working all the 
time. I’ve been living, I tell you, living God knows 
where! — not in this accursed little world. Here, 
let’s pick up the sheets. There’s enough work for 
- you.” 

She looked at him curiously. 

“Have you been in that chair ever since? ” she 
asked. 

‘Fiver since,” he assented enthusiastically. 

** Any lunch? ” 

“Not a scrap. Never thought about it.” 

“You'll make yourself sick, that’s what you'll 


116 THE CINEMA MURDER 


do,” she declared. ‘Go out and get something at 
once.” 

“Never even thought about lunch,” he repeated, 
half to himself. ‘*‘ Where have you been? ” 

“Some luck,” she replied. “First place I 
dropped in at. Found there was a girl gone home 
for the day, fainted. Lots of work to do, so they 
just stuck me down in her chair. Three dollars they 
gave me. The girl’s coming back to-morrow, 
though, worse luck.” 

“When did you have your lunch? ” 

“ Haven’t had any. I’m going to make myself a 
cup of tea now.” 

He reached for his hat. 

“Not on your life!” he exclaimed. “ Come 
along, Miss Martha Grimes. I have written lines 
— you just wait till you type them! I tell you 
it’s what I have had at the back of my head for 
months. It’s there now on paper — living, flaring 
words. Come along.” 

“Where to? ” 

“We are going to eat,” he insisted. “I am 
faint, and so are you. We are going to that same 
place, and we’ll have lunch and dinner in one.” 

“Nothing doing,” she snapped. “ You'll see 
some more people who recognise you.” 

He waved his hand contemptuously. 

“Who cares! If you don’t come along with me, 
I’ll go up town to the Waldorf or the Ritz Carlton. 
Ill waste my money and advertise myself. Come 
along — that same little quiet corner. I don’t sup- 
pose your friends will be there again.” 

~ Stella won’t,” she admitted doubtfully. “ She’s 


THE CINEMA MURDER 117 


going to Sherry’s. Id just as soon be out,” she 
went on ruminatingly. ‘ Shouldn’t be surprised if 
she didn’t bring that guy in, after all.” 

He had already rung the bell of the lift. 

“Look at me!” she exclaimed ironically. ‘ Nice 
sort of an object I am to take out! Got a rain- 
coat on—though it’s dry enough— because my 
coat’s gone at the seams.” 

“If you don’t stop talking like that,” he declared, 
* Y’ll march into one of those great stores and order 
everything a woman wants to wear. Look at me. 
Did you ever see such clothes!” 

** A man’s different,’ she protested. ‘“ Besides, 
you’ve got a way with you of looking as though 
you could wear better clothes if you wanted to — 
something superior. I don’t like it. I should like 
you better if you were common.” 

** You’re going to like me better,” he assured her, 
“* because we are going to have a cocktail together 
. within the next three minutes. Look at you — pale 
as you can stick. I bet you haven’t had a mouthful 
of food all day. Neither have I, except a slice of 
bread and butter with my tea this morning. We’re 
a nice sort of couple to talk about clothes. What 
we want is food.” 

She swayed for a moment and pretended that she 
tripped. He caught her arm and steadied her. 
She jerked it from him. 

** Have your own way,” she yielded. 

They reached the corner of the street, plunged 
into the surging crowds of Broadway, passed into 
the huge restaurant, were once more pounced upon 
by a businesslike but slightly patronizing maitre 


118 THE CINEMA MURDER 


d’hétcl, and escorted to a remote table in a sort 
of annex of the room. Philip pushed the menu 
away. 

“Two cocktails —the quickest you ever mixed 
in your life,” he ordered. ‘ Quicker than that, 
mind.” 

The man was back again almost at once with two 
frosted glasses upon a tray. ‘They laughed to- 
gether almost like children as they set them down 
empty. 

“*¥ know what I want, and you, too, by the look 
of you,” he continued —‘ a beefsteak, with some 
more of that green corn you gave me the other day, 
and fried potatoes, and Burgundy. We’ll have some 
oysters first while we wait.” 

She sighed. 

**T don’t mean to come here with you again,” she 
said, a little impatiently. “I don’t know why I 
give in to you. You’re not strong, you know. You 
are a weak man. Women will always look after 
you; they’ll always help you im trouble —I sup- 
pose they’ll always care for you. Can’t think why I 
do what you want me to. Guess I was near starv- 
ing.” 

He laughed. 

“You don’t know much about me yet,” he re- 
minded her. 

“You don’t know much about yourself,” she re- 
torted glibly. ‘* Why, according to your own con- 
fession, you only started life a few weeks ago. I 
fancy what went before didn’t count for much. 
You’ve been fretted and tied up somewhere. You 
haven’t had the chance of getting big like so many 


THE CINEMA MURDER 119 


of our American men. What are you going to do 
with this play of yours?” 

* Miss Elizabeth Dalstan has promised to produce 
it,” he told her. 

She looked at him in some surprise. 

“Elizabeth Daltstan?” she repeated. ‘ Why, 
she’s one of our best actresses.” 

**I understood so,” he replied. ‘ She has heard 
the story —in fact I wrote out one of the scenes 
with her. She is going to produce it as soon as it’s 
finished.” 

** Well, all you poor idiots who write things have 
some fine tale to tell their typewriter,” she remarked. 
** You seem as though you mean it, though. Where 
did you meet Elizabeth Dalstan? ” 

“I came over with her on the Elletania,” he an- 
swered thoughtlessly. 

She gave a little start. Then she turned upon 
him almost in anger. 

“Well, of all the simpletons!” she exclaimed. 
**So that’s the way you give yourself away, is it? 
Just here from Jamaica, eh! Nothing to do with 
Douglas Romilly! Never heard of the Elletania, 
did you! I'd like to see you on the grid at police 
headquarters for five minutes, with one of our men 
asking you a few friendly questions! You’d look 
well, you would! You ought to go about with a 
nurse! ” 

Philip had all the appearance of a guilty child, 

* You see,” he explained penitently, “I am new 
to this sort of thing. However, you know now.” 

“Still ready to swear that you’re not Douglas 
Romilly, I suppose? ” 


120 THE CINEMA MURDER 


On my honour I am not,” he replied. 

‘** Kind of funny that you should have been on the 
steamer, after all,” she jeered. 

** Perhaps so, but I am not Douglas Romilly,” he 
persisted. 

She was silent for a moment, then she shrugged 
her shoulders. 

‘What do I care who you are?” she said. 
‘** Here, help me off with this raincoat, please. It’s 
warm in here, thank goodness! ” 

He looked at her as she sat by his side in her plain 
black dress, and was impressed for the first time 
with a certain unsuspected grace of outline, which 
made him for the moment oblivious of the shabbiness 
of her gown. 

** You have rather a nice figure,” he told her with 
a sudden impulse of ingenuousness, 

She turned upon him almost furiously. Some- 
thing in his expression, however, seemed to disarm 
her. She closed her lips again. 

“You are nothing but a child!” she declared. 
“You don’t mean anything. I’d be a fool to be 
angry with you.” 

The waiter brought their steak. Philip was con- 
scious of something in his companion’s eyes which 
almost horrified him. It was just that gleam of 
hungry desire which has starvation for its back- 
ground. : 

** Don’t let’s talk,” he pleaded. ‘* There isn’t any 
conversation in the world as good as this.” 

The waiter served them and withdrew, casting a 
curious glance behind. They were, from his point 
of view, a strange couple, for, cosmopolitan though 


THE CINEMA MURDER rat 


the restaurant was, money was plentiful in the 
neighbourhood, and clients as shabby as these two 
seldom presented themselves. He pointed them out 
to a maitre d’hotel, who in his turn whispered a few 
words concerning them to a dark, lantern-jawed 
man, with keen eyes and a hard mouth, who was 
dining by himself. The latter glanced at them and 
nodded. 

“Thank you, Charles,” he said, “I’ve had my 
eye on them. The girl’s a pauper, daughter of that 
old fool Grimes, the actor. Does a little typewrit- 
ing — precious little, I should think, from the look 
of her. The man’s interesting. Don’t talk about 
them. Understand?” 

The maitre d’hétel bowed. 

“I understand, Inspector. Not much any one 
can tell you, sir.” 

“Pays his bill in American money, I suppose? ” 
the diner asked. 

*T’ll ascertain for you, Mr. Dane,” Charles re- 
plied. “TI believe he is an Englishman.” 

“Name of Merton Ware,” the inspector agreed, 
nodding, “just arrived from Jamaica. Writes 
some sort of stuff which the girl with him type- 
writes. That’s his story. He’s probably as harm- 
less as a baby.” 

Charles bowed and moved away. His smile was 
inscrutable. 


CHAPTER V 


New York became a changed city to Philip. Its 
roar and its turmoil, its babel of tongues speaking 
to him always in some alien language, were sud- 
denly hushed! He was no longer conscious of the 
hard unconcern of a million faces, of the crude build- 
ings in the streets, the cutting winds, the curious, 
depressing sense of being on a desert island, the her- 
mit clutching at the sleeves of imaginary multi- 
tudes. A few minutes’ journey in a cable car which 
seemed to crawl, a few minutes’ swift walking along 
the broad thoroughfare of Fifth Avenue, where his — 
feet seemed to fall upon the air and the passers- 
by seemed to smile upon him like real human beings, 
and he was in her room. It was only an hotel sit- 
ting room, after all, but eloquent of her, a sitting 
room filled with great bowls of roses, with comforta- 
ble easy-chairs, furniture of rose-coloured satin, 
white walls, and an English fire upon the grate. 
Elizabeth was in New York, and the world moved 
differently. 

She came out to him from an inner room almost 
at once. His eyes swept over her feverishly. He 
almost held his breath. Then he gave a great sigh 
of satisfaction. She came with her hands out- 
stretched, a welcoming smile upon her lips. She 


THE CINEMA MURDER 123 


was just as he had expected to find her. There was 
nothing in her manner to indicate that they had not 
parted yesterday. 

** Welcome to New York, my dramatist!” she ex- 
claimed. ‘TI am here, you see, to the day, almost to 
the hour.” 

He stood there, holding her hands. His eyes 
seemed to be devouring her. 

“Go on talking to me,” he begged. “Let me 
hear you speak. You can’t think — you can’t im- 
agine how often in the middle of the night, I have 
waked up and thought of you, and the cold shivers 
have come because, after all, I fancied that you 
must be a dream, that you didn’t really exist, 
that that voyage had never existed. Go on talk- 
ing.” 

“You foolish person!” she laughed, patting his 
hands affectionately. “But then, of course, you 
are a little overwrought. I am very real, I can as- 
sure you. I have been in Chicago, playing, but 
there hasn’t been a night when I haven’t thought of 
the times when we used to talk together in the dark- 
ness, when you let me into your life, and I made 
up my mind to try and help you. Foolish person! 
Sit down in that great easy-chair and draw it up to 
the fire.” 

He sank into it with a little sigh of content. She 
threw herself on to the couch opposite to him. Her 
hands drooped down a little wearily on either side, 
her head was thrown back. Against the background 
of rose-silk cushions, her cheeks seemed unexpectedly 
pale. 

“J am tired with travelling,” she murmured, “ and 


124 THE CINEMA MURDER 


I hate Chicago, and I have worried about you. Day 
by day I have read the papers. Everything has 
gone well? ” 

“So far as I know,” he answered. “I did ex- 
actly as we planned—or rather as you planned. 
The papers have been full of the disappearance of 
Douglas Romilly. You read how wonderfully it has 
all turned out? Fate has provided him with a real 
reason for disappearing. It seems that the busi- 
ness was bankrupt.” 

* You mustn’t forget, though,” she reminded him, 
“that that also supplies a considerable motive for 
tracking him down. He is supposed to have at least 
twenty thousand pounds with him.” 

“J have all the papers,’ he went on. ‘“ They 
prove that he knew the state the business was in. 
They prove that he really intended to disappear in 
New York. The money stands to the credit of Mer- 
ton Ware — and another at a bank with which his 
firm apparently had had no connections, a small 
bank in Wall Street.” 

** So that,” she remarked, “is where you get your 
pseudonym from? ” 

“It makes the identification so easy,” he pointed 
out, “and no one knew of it except he. I could 
easily get a witness presently to prove that I am 
Merton Ware.” 

‘You haven’t drawn the money yet, then? ” 

“‘T haven’t been near the bank,” he replied. “I 
still have over a thousand dollars — money he had 
with him. Sometimes I think that if I could I’d 
like to leave that twenty thousand pounds where it 
is. I should like some day, if I could do so without 


THE CINEMA MURDER 125 


suspicion, to let the creditors of the firm have it 
back again. What do you think?” 

She nodded. 

“I would rather you didn’t touch it yourself, 
she agreed. “TI think you'll find, too, that you'll 
be able to earn quite enough without wanting it. 
Nothing disturbing has happened to you at all, 
then? ” 

* Once I had a fright,” he told her. ‘I was in 
a restaurant close to my hotel. I was there with 
a young woman who is typing the play for me.” 

She looked towards him incredulously. 

* You were there with a typewriter?” she ex- 
claimed. 

**I suppose it seems queer,” he admitted. “It 
didn’t to me. She is a plain, shabby, half starved 
little thing, fighting her own battle bravely. She 
came to me for work — she lives in the flat below — 
and it seemed to me that she was just as hungry 
for a kind word as I was lonely, and I took her out 
with me. ‘Twice I have taken her. Her name is 
Miss Grimes.” 

“JT am not in the least sure that I approve,” she 
said, “ but go on.” 

“A friend of hers came into the restaurant, a girl 
in the chorus of a musical comedy here, and she had 
with her a young man. I recognised him at once. 
We didn’t come across one another much, but he was 
on the steamer.” 

Elizabeth’s face was full of concern. 

“Go on.” 

“ He asked me twice if I wasn’t Mr. Romilly. I 
assured him that he was mistaken. I don’t think I 


bb] 


126 THE CINEMA MURDER 


gave myself away. The next day he went to see the 
girl I was with, Martha Grimes.” 

“Well, what did she tell him? ” 

“‘ She told him that she had been typing my work 
for over a month, that I had come from Jamaica, 
and that my name was Merton Ware.” 

Elizabeth gazed into the fire for several moments, 
and Philip watched her. It was a woman’s face, 
grave and thoughtful, a little perturbed just tlien, 
as though by some unwelcome thought. Presently 
she looked back at him, looked into his eyes long and 
earnestly. . 7 

** My friend,” she said, “ you are like no one else 
on earth. Perhaps you are one of those horrible 
people who have what they call an unholy influence 
over my sex. You have known this girl for a matter 
of a few days, and she lies for you. And there’s 
five hundred dollars reward. I suppose she knew 
about that? ” 7 

“Yes, she knew,” he admitted. “She simply 
isn’t that sort. I suppose I realised that, or I 
shouldn’t have been kind to her.” 

“It’s a puzzle,” she went on. ‘I think there must 
be something in you of the weakling, you know, 
something that appeals to the mothering instinct 
in women. I know that my first feeling for you 
was that I wanted to help you. Tell me what you 
think of yourself, Mr. Philip Merton Ware? Are 
you a faithful person? Are you conscientious? 
Have you a heart, I wonder? How much of the 
man is there underneath that strong frame of yours? 
Are you going to take just the things that are 
given you in life, and make no return? For the mo- 


THE CINEMA MURDER 127 


ment, you see, I am forgetting that you are my 
friend and that I like you. I am thinking of you 
from the point of view of an actress — as a psychical 
problem. Philip, you idiot!” she broke off, sud- 
denly stamping her foot, “don’t sit there looking 
at me with your great eyes. Tell me you are glad 
I’ve come back. Tell me you feel something, for 
goodness’ sake!” 

He was on his knees before she could check him, 
his arms, his lips praying for her. She thrust him 
back. 

“It was my fault,” she declared, “ but don’t, 
please. Yes, of course you have feelings. I don’t 
know why you tempted me to that little outburst.” 

“You'll tempt me to more than that,” he cried 
passionately. ‘Do you think it’s for your help 
that I’ve thought of you? Do you think it’s because 
you’re an angel to me, because you’ve comforted 
me in my darkest, most miserable hours that I’ve 
dreamed of you and craved for you? ‘There’s more 
than that in my thoughts, dear. It’s because you 
are you, yourself, that I’ve longed for you through 
the aching hours of the night, that I’ve sat and 
written like a man beside himself just for the joy 
of thinking that the words I wrote would be spoken 
by you. Oh! if you want me to tell you what I 
feel —” 

She suddenly leaned forward, took his head be 
tween her hands and kissed his forehead. 

“Now get back, please, to your chair,” she 
begged. “ You've stilled the horrible, miserable little 
doubt that was tearing at my heartstrings. I just 
had it before, once or twice, and then — isn’t it 


128 THE CINEMA MURDER 


foolish! — your telling me about this little type- 
writer girl! I must go and see her. We must be 
kind to her.” 

He resumed his seat with a little sigh. 

“She thought a great deal more of me and my 
work when I told her that you were probably going 
to act in my play.” 

Her expression changed. She was more serious, 
at the same time more eager. 

“Ah! The play!” she exclaimed. “I can see 
that you have brought some of it.” 

He drew the roll of manuscript from his pocket. 

“Shall I read it? ” he suggested. 

She almost snatched it away. “No! I can’t 
wait for that. Give it to me, quickly.” 

She leaned forward so that the firelight fell upon 
the pages. Little strands of soft brown hair 
drooped over her face. In studying her, Philip al- 
most forgot his own anxiety. He had known so few 
women, yet he had watched so many from afar off, 
endowed them with their natural qualities, built up 
their lives and tastes for them, and found them all 
so sadly wanting. To him, Elizabeth represented 
everything that was desirable in her sex, from the 
flowing lines of her beautiful body to the sympathy 
which seemed to be always shining out of her eyes. 
Notwithstanding her strength, she was so exquisitely 
and entirely feminine, a creature of silk and laces, 
free from any effort of provocativeness, yet subtly, 
almost clamorously human. He forgot, in those few 
moments, that she had become the arbitress of his 
material fate — that he was a humble author, watch- 
ang the effect of his first attempts upon a mistress 


THE CINEMA MURDER 129 


in her profession. He remembered only that she was 
the woman who was filling his life, stealing into every 
corner of it, permeating him with love, pointing him 
onwards towards a life indescribable, unrealisa- 
ble. . 

She swung suddenly towards him. There was a 
certain amount of enthusiasm in her face but even 
more marked was her relief. 

Oh! I am so glad,” she cried. ‘ You know, I 
have had qualms. When you told me the story in 
your own words, picking your language so carefully, 
and building it all up before me, well, you know what 
I said. I gave you more than hope —I promised 
you success. And then, when I got away into the 
hard, stagey world of Chicago, and my manager 
talked business to me, and my last playwright 
preached of technique, I began to wonder whether, 
after all, you could bring your ideas together like 
this, whether you would have a sense of perspective 
— you know what I mean, don’t you? And you have 
it, and the play is going to be wonderful, and I shall 
produce it. Why don’t you look pleased, Mr. 
Author? You are going to be famous.” 

He smiled. 

“J don’t care about fame,” he said. ‘‘ And for 
the rest, I think I knew.” 

** Conceited! ” she exclaimed. 

“It wasn’t that,” he protested. “It was simply 
when I sat down in that little room, high up over 
the roofs and buildings of a strange city, shut my- 
self in and told myself that it was for you — well, 
the thoughts came too easily. They tumbled over 
one another. And when I looked away from my 


130 THE CINEMA MURDER 


work, I saw the people moving around me, and I 
knew that I had made my dreams real, and that’s the 
great thing, isn’t it? . . . Elizabeth!” . 

“Well? ” 

“I am lonely in that little room.’ 

* You lonely, taking out ‘ocala to dine!” 
she mocked tenderly. 

‘It is lonely,” he repeated, “ and I am afraid of 
you here in all this luxury. I am so far away. I 
come from my attic to this, and I am afraid. Do 
you know why?” 

She sat quite still for a moment. MDimly she felt. 
the presage of a coming change in their relations. 
Up to now she had been the mistress, she had held 
him so easily in check with her practised skill, with 
an unfinished sentence, a look, a touch. And now 
the man was rising up: in him, and she felt her pow- 
ers weaken. 

** Shall I change my abode? ” she murmured. 

“ Ah! but you would be just as wonderful and as 
far away even if we changed places —if you sat 
in my attic and I took your place here. That isn’t 
why I torture myself, why I am always asking my- 
self if you are real, if the things we talk about are 
real, if the things we feel belong to ourselves, well 
up from our own hearts for one another or are just 
the secondary emotions of other people we catch 
up without knowing why. This is foolish, but you 
understand — you do understand. It is because you 
keep me so far away from yourself, when my fingers 
are burning for yours, when even to touch your face, 
to feel your cheek against mine, would banish every 
fear I have ever had. Elizabeth, you do understand! 


THE CINEMA MURDER 131 


I have never kissed you, I have never held you for 
one moment in my arms — and I love you!” 

He was leaning over her chair and she held him 
tightly by the shoulders. There was nothing left 
of that hidden fear in his dark eyes. They shone 
now with another light, and she began to tremble. 

**I wanted to wait a little, Philip, but if you feel 
like that — well, I can’t.” 

He took her silently into his arms. With the 
half closing of her eyes, the first touch of her re’ 
sponsive lips, himself dimly conscious of the change, 
he passed into the world where stronger men live. 


BOOK Iil 


CHAPTER I 


Three months later, a very different Philip stood 
in the smaller of a handsome suite of reception rooms 
in a fashionable Fifth Avenue hotel. He was wear- 
ing evening clothes of the most approved cut and 
carried himself with a dignity and assurance en- 
tirely transforming. The distinction of birth and 
breeding, little apparent in those half-starved, pas- 
sionate days of his misery, had come easily to the 
surface. His shoulders, too, seemed to have broad- 
ened, and his face had lost its cadaverous pallor. 

The apartment in which he stood was plainly but 
handsomely furnished as a small withdrawing room. 
On the oak chiffonier stood a silver tray on which 
were half a dozen frosted cocktails. ‘Through the 
curtains was apparent a room beyond, in which a 
round table, smothered with flowers, was arranged 
for supper; in the distance, from the public res- 
taurant, came the sound of softly played music. 
Philip glanced at the clock. The whole of the anx- 
ieties of this momentous evening had passed. Tele- 
phone messages had reached him every quarter of 
an hour. The play was a great success. Elizabeth 
was coming to him with her producer and a few 
theatrical friends, flushed with triumph. They were 
all to meet for the first time that night the man 
who for the last three months had lived as a hermit — 


136 THE CINEMA MURDER 


Merton Ware, the author of “ The House of Shams,” 
the new-found dramatist. 

A maitre d’hétel appeared in the space between the 
two rooms, and bowed. 

*‘ Everything is quite ready, Mr. Ware,” he said, 
in the friendly yet deferential manner of an Ameri- 
can head-waiter. ‘ Won’t you take a cocktail, sir, 
while you are waiting? ” 

“ Very thoughtful of you, Louis. I think I will,” 
Philip assented, taking a little case from his pocket 
and lighting a cigarette. 

The man passed him a glass upon a small sal- 
ver. 

“You'll pardon the liberty, I am sure, sir,” he 
continued, dropping his voice a little. “I’ve just 
heard that ‘The House of Shams’ seems to be a 
huge success, sir. If I might take the liberty of 
offering my congratulations! ” 

Philip smiled genially. 

* You are the first, Louis,” he said. ‘ Thank you 
very much indeed.” 

*¢T think you will find the supper everything that 
could be desired, Mr. Ware,” the man went on. 
* Our head chef, Monsieur Raconnot, has given it 
his personal attention. The wine will be slightly 
iced, as you desired. I shall be outside in the corri- 
dor to announce the guests.” 

** Capital, Louis! ” Ware replied, sipping his cock- 
tail. “It will be another quarter of an hour yet 
before we see anything of them, I am afraid.” 

The man disappeared and left Philip once more 
alone. He looked through the walls of the room as 
though, indeed, he could see into the packed theatre 


THE CINEMA MURDER 137 


and could hear the cries for “ Author!” which even 
then were echoing through the house. From the 
moment when Elizabeth, abandoning her reserve, had 
_ given him the love he craved, a new strength seemed 
to have shone out of the man. Step by step he had 
thought out subtly and with infinite care every small 
detail of his life. It was he who had elected to live 
those three months in absolute seclusion. It was 
he, indirectly, who had arranged that many more 
photographs of Douglas Romilly, the English shoe 
manufacturer, should appear in the newspapers. 
One moment’s horror he had certainly had. He 
could see the little paragraph now, almost lost in 
the shoals of more important news: 


GHASTLY DISCOVERY IN A DERBYSHIRE 
CANAL 


Yesterday the police recovered the body of a man who 
had apparently been dead for some weeks, from a canal 
close to Detton Magna. The body was unrecogniseble 
but it is believed that the remains are those of Mr. Philip 
Romilly, the missing art teacher from London, who is 
alleged to have committed suicide in January last. 


The thought of that gruesome find scarcely 
blanched his cheeks. His nerves now were stronger 
and tenser things. He crushed back those memories 
with all the strength of his will. Whatever might 
lie behind, he had struck for the future which he 
meant to live and enjoy. They were only weaklings 
who brooded over an unalterable past. It was for 
the present and the near future that he lived, and 
both, in that moment, were more alluring than ever 
before. Even his intellectual powers seemed to have 


138 THE CINEMA MURDER 


developed in his new-found happiness. The play 
which he had written, every line of which appeared to 
gain in vital and literary force towards its con- 
clusion, was only the first of his children. Already 
other images and ideas were flowing into his brain. 
The power of creation was triumphantly throwing 
out its tendrils. He was filled with an amazing and. 
almost inspired confidence. He was ready to start 
upon fresh work that hour, to-morrow, or when 
he chose. And before him now was the prospect of 
stimulating companionship. Elizabeth and he had 
decided that the time had come for him to take his 
fate into his hands. He was to be introduced to 
the magnates of the dramatic profession, to be- 
come a clubman in the world’s most hospitable city, 
to mix freely in the circles where he would find him- 
self in constant association with the keenest brains 
and most brilliant men of letters in the world. He 
was safe. They had both decided it. 

He walked to the mirror and looked at himself. 
The nervous, highly-strung, half-starved, neurotic 
stripling had become the perfectly assured, well- 
mannered, and well-dressed man of the world. He 
had studied various details with a peculiar care, 
suffered a barber to take summary measures with 
his overlong black hair, had accustomed himself to 
the use of an eyeglass, which hung around his neck 
by a thin, black ribbon. Men might talk of like- 
nesses, men who were close students of their fellows, 
yet there was no living person who could point to 
him and say —‘* You are, beyond a shadow of doubt, 
a man with whom I travelled on the Elletania.” ‘The 
thing was impossible. 


THE CINEMA MURDER 139 


Louis once more made a noiseless appearance. 
There was the slightest of frowns upon his face. 

** A gentleman wishes a word with you before the 
arrival of your guests, Mr. Ware,” he announced. 

“© A journalist? ” Philip enquired carelessly. 

“IT do not think so, sir.” 

Even as he spoke the door was opened and closed 
again. ‘The man who had entered bowed slightly — 
to Philip. He was tall and clean-shaven, self-as- 
sured, and with manner almost significantly reserved. 
He held a bowler hat in his hand and glanced to- 
wards Louis. He had the air of being somewhat 
out of place in so fashionable a rendezvous. 

** Good evening, Mr. Ware!” he began. ‘“ Could 
I have just a word with you?” 

Philip nodded to Louis, who at once left the room. 
The newcomer drew a little nearer. 

“My name, sir,” he said, “is Dane — Edward 
Dane.” 

Philip bowed politely. He was just a little an- 
noyed at the intrusion, an annoyance which he failed 
altogether to conceal. 

“What do you want with me?” he asked. “I 
am expecting some friends to supper in about ten 
minutes.” 

“Ten minutes will perhaps be sufficient for what 
I have to say,” the other promised. ‘ You don’t 
know me, then, Mr. Ware? ” 

“* Never saw you before, to the best of my knowl- 
edge,” Philip replied nonchalantly. ‘“‘Are you a 
journalist? ” 

The man laid his hat upon a corner of the table. 

“JT am a detective,” he said, “ attached to the 


140 THE CINEMA MURDER 


Cherry Street headquarters. Your last rooms, Mr. 
Ware, were in my beat.” 

Philip nodded with some slight indication of in- 
terest. He faced his ordeal with the courage of a 
man of steel. 

“That so?” he remarked indifferently. ‘ Well, 
Mr. Dane, I have heard a good deal about you Amer- 
ican detectives. Pleased to meet you. What can I 
do for you?” 

The detective eyed Philip steadfastly. There was 
just the shadow of something that looked like ad- 
miration in his hard, grey eyes. 

* Well, Mr. Ware,” he said, ‘‘ nothing that need 
disturb your supper party, I am sure. Over in 
this country we sometimes do things in an unusual 
way. That’s why I am paying you this visit. I 
have been watching you for exactly three months 
and fourteen days.” 

* Watching me?” Philip repeated. 

** Precisely! No idea why, I suppose? ” 

** Not the slightest.” 

The detective glanced towards the clock. Barely 
two minutes had passed. 

“Well,” he explained, “I got on your tracks 
quick enough when you skipped from the Waldorf 
and blossomed out in a second-rate tenement house 
as Merton Ware.” 

“So I was at the Waldorf, was I? ” Philip mur- 
mured. 

‘You crossed from Liverpool on the Hiletania,” 
the man continued, “ registered at the Waldorf as 
Mr. Douglas Romilly of the Douglas Romilly Shoe 
Company, went to your room, changed your clothes, 


THE CINEMA MURDER 141 


and disappeared. Of course, a disappearance of 
that sort,” he went on tolerantly, “ might be possible 
in London. In New York, to even attempt it is 
_ farcical.” ; 

“Dear me,” remarked Philip, “this is very in- 
teresting. Let me ask you this question, though. 
If you were so sure of your facts, why didn’t you 
arrest me at once instead of just watching me? ” 

The man’s eyes were like gimlets. He seemed as 
though he were trying, with curious and professional 
intensity, to read the thoughts in Philip’s brain. 

“There is no criminal charge against Douglas 
Romilly that I know of,” he said. 

“'There’s a considerable reward offered for his 
discovery,” Philip reminded him. 

*T can claim that at any moment,” the man re- 
plied. “I have had my reasons for waiting. It’s 
partly those reasons that have brought me here. 
For one thing, Mr. Douglas Romilly was supposed 
to be able to put his hand on a matter of a hundred 
thousand dollars somewhere in New York. You 
haven’t shown many signs up till now, Mr. Ware, 
of having any such sum in your possession.” 

**T see,” Philip assented. ‘‘ You wanted the money 
as well.” 

‘“‘ The creditors of the Douglas Romilly Shoe Com- 
pany are wanting it pretty badly,” the man pro- 
ceeded, “ but that wasn’t all. I wanted to find out 
what your game was. That I don’t know, even 
now. ‘That is why I have come to you. Have I 
the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Douglas Romilly? ” 

“JT really don’t see,” Philip protested thought- 
fully, “why I should go into partnership with you 


142 THE CINEMA MURDER 


in this affair. You see, in the long run, our in- 
terests might not be altogether identical.” 

Mr. Dane smiled grimly. 

**'That’s a fairly shrewd calculation, Mr. Ware,” 
he admitted. ‘* You ain’t bound to answer any ques- 
tion you don’t want to. This is just a friendly chat 
and no more.” 

“ Besides,” Philip continued, lighting another cig- 
arette, “IJ think I understood you to say that you 
had already arrived at the conclusion that I was 
Douglas Romilly? ” 

“ Not precisely that,” the detective replied. ‘“ All 
that I discovered was that you were the man who 
registered at the Waldorf Hotel as Mr. Douglas 
Romilly.” 

“Well, the only name I choose to acknowledge at 
present is the name of Merton Ware,” Philip de- 
clared. “If you think there is any mystery about 
me, any connection with the gentleman whom I be- 
lieve you call Mr. Douglas Romilly, well, the mat- 
ter is one for your investigation. You will for- 
give me if I remind you that my guests will be here 
in a matter of a few minutes, and permit me to 
ask you one more question. Why do you come here 
to me in this very unofficial manner? If I am really 
an impostor, you are giving me every opportunity of 
clearing out.” 

Mr. Edward Dane shook his head. He was finger- 
ing the brim of his hat. 

“Oh, no, Mr. Ware!” he declared smoothly. 
“Our detective system may have some faults, but 
when a man’s name is put on the list where yours 
figures, he has not one chance in a million of leaving 


THE CINEMA MURDER 143 


the country or of gaining any place of hiding. I 
shall know where you lunch to-morrow and with 
whom you dine, and with whom you spend your time. 
The law, sir, will keep its eye upon you.” 

* Really, that seems very friendly,” Philip said 
coolly. ‘“‘ Shall I have the privilege of your personal 
surveillance? ” 

**] think not, Mr. Ware.’ To tell you the truth, 
this is rather a p. p. c. visit. D’ve booked my pas- 
sage on the Elletania, sailing to-morrow from New 
York. I am taking a trip over to England to make 
a few enquiries round about the spot where this 
Mr. Douglas Romilly hails from — Detton Magna, 
isn’t it?” 

Philip made no reply, yet even his silence might 
well have been the silence of indifference. 

“ At the last moment,” the detective concluded, 
“it flashed in upon me that there might be some 
ridiculous explanation of the few little points about 
your case which, I must confess, have puzzled me. 
For that reason, I decided to seek an interview with 
you before I left. You have, however, I gather, 
nothing to say to me?” | 

“ Nothing at all, Mr. Dane, except to wish you 
a pleasant voyage,” Philip declared. “I won’t de- 
tain you a moment longer. I hear my guests in the 
corridor. Good night, sir!” he added, opening the 
door. “I appreciate your call very much. Come 
and see me again when you return from England.” 

Mr. Dane lingered for a moment upon the thresh- 
old, hat in hand, a somewhat ominous figure. There 
was no attempt at a handshake between the two men. 
The detective was imperturbable. Philip, listening 


144 THE CINEMA MURDER 


to Elizabeth’s voice, had shown his first sign of 
impatience, 

“‘T shall surely do that, Mr. Ware!” the other 
promised, as he passed out. 

The door closed. Philip stood for a moment in 
the empty room, listening to the man’s retreating 
footsteps. ‘Then he turned slowly around. His 
cheeks were blanched, his eyes were glazed with 
reminiscent horror. He looked through the wall of 
the room —a long way back. 

** We shall find Mr. Ware in here, I expect.” He 
could hear the voices of his approaching guests. 

He ground his heel into the carpet and swung 
around. He anticipated Louis, threw open the cur- 
tain, and stood there waiting to welcome his guests, 
a smile upon his lips, his hands outstretched towards 
Elizabeth. 


CHAPTER Ii 


Elizabeth’s face was glowing with joy. For the 
first time Philip realised that she, too, had had her 
anxieties. 

“You dear, dear man!” she exclaimed. “To 
think what you have missed! It would have been 
the evening of your life. It’s a success, do you 
hear? —a great success! It was wonderful! ” 

He seemed, almost to himself, to be playing a 
part, he was so calm yet so gracefully happy. 

“I am glad for both our sakes,” he said. 

She indicated the others with a little wave of the 
hand. 

“J don’t think you know a soul, do you?” she 
asked. ‘* They none of them quite believe in your 
existence down at the theatre. This is my leading 
man, Noel Bridges. You should have seen how 
splendid he was as Carriston.” 

Mr. Noel Bridges, with a deprecating smile to- 
wards Elizabeth, held out his hand. He was tall 
and of rather a rugged type for the New York stage. 
Like the rest of the little party, his eyes were full 
of curiosity as he shook hands with Philip. 

** So you are something human, after all,” he re- 
marked. ‘We began to think you lived under- 
ground and only put your head up every now and 


146 THE CINEMA MURDER 


then for a little air. I am glad to meet you, Mr. 
Ware. I enjoy acting in your play very much 
indeed, and I hope it’s only the first of many.” 

“You are very kind,” Philip murmured cordially. 

Elizabeth glanced around the little group. 

** Dear me, I am forgetting my manners,” she de- 
clared. ‘*I ought to have presented you to Sara 
Denison first. Sara is really the star of your play, 
Mr. Ware, although I have the most work to do. 
She loves her part and has asked about you nearly 
every day.” | 

Miss Denison, a young lady of the smaller Gib- 
son type, with large eyes and a very constant smile, 
greeted Philip warmly. 

“Do you know,” she told him, “ that this is the 
first time I have ever been in a play in which the 
author hasn’t been round setting us to rights most 
of the time? I can’t imagine how you kept away, 
Mr. Ware.” 

“Perhaps,” observed Philip, “my absence has 
contributed to your success. I am sure I shouldn’t 
have known what to tell you. You see, I am so ab- 
solutely ignorant of the technique.” | 

*T’ve got to shake hands with you, Mr. Ware,” 
a stout, middle-aged, clean-shaven man, with nar- 
row black eyes and pale cheeks, declared, stepping 
forward. “‘ These other folk don’t count for much 
by the side of me. JI am the manager of the theatre, 
and I’m thundering glad that your first play has 
been produced at the § New York,’ sir. There’s good 
stuff in it, and if Iam any judge, and I’m supposed 
to be, there’s plenty of better stuff behind. Shake 
hands, if you please, sir. You know me by name — 


THE CINEMA MURDER 147 


Paul Fink. I hope you'll see my signature at the 
bottom of a good many fat cheques before you’ve 
finished writing plays.” 

“‘That’s very nice of you, Mr. Fink,” Philip de- 
clared. ‘Now I am sure you all want your sup- 
per.” 

At a sign from Philip, the maitre d’hétel handed. 
round the tray of cocktails. Mr. Fink raised his 
glass. 

** Here’s success to the play,” he exclaimed, “ and 
good luck to all of us!” 

He tossed off the contents of the glass and they 
all followed his example. ‘Then they took their places 
at the little round table and the service of supper 
began. The conversation somewhat naturally cen- 
tered around Philip. The three strangers were all 
interested in his personality and the fact that he 
had no previous work to his credit. It was unusual, 
almost dramatic, and for a time both Elizabeth and 
he himself found themselves hard put to it to es- 
cape the constant wave of good-natured but very 
pertinent questions. 

“ You’ll have a dose of our newspapermen to-mor- 
row, sir,’ Mr. Fink promised him. ‘ They’ll be buzz- 
ing around you all day long. They’ll want to know 
everything, from where you get your clothes and 
what cigarettes you smoke, to how you like best to do 
your work and what complexioned typist you pre- 
fer. They’re some boys, I can tell you.” 

Philip’s eyes met Elizabeth’s across the table. The 
same instinct of disquictude kept them both, for a 
moment, silent. 

“JT am afraid,” Elizabeth sighed, “ that Mr. Ware 


148 THE CINEMA MURDER 


will find it rather hard to appreciate some of our 
journalistic friends.” 

“'They’re good fellows,” Mr. Fink declared heart- 
ily, “ white men, all of them. So long as you don’t 
try to put ’em off on a false stunt, or anything of 
that sort, they’ll sling the ink about some. Ed 
Harris was in my room just after the second act, 
and he showed me some of his stuff. I tell you he 
means to boost us.” 

Elizabeth laid her hand upon her manager’s 
arm. 

“'They’re delightful, every one of them,” she 
agreed, “ but, Mr. Fink, you have such influence with 
them, I wonder if I dare give you just a hint? Mr. 
Ware has passed through some very painful times 
lately. Heis so anxious to forget, and I really don’t 
wonder at it myself. I am sure he will be delighted 
to. talk with all of them as to the future and 
his future plans, but do you think you could just 
drop them a hint to go quietly as regards the 
past? ” | 

Mr. Fink was a little perplexed but inclined to be 
sympathetic. He glanced towards Philip, who was 
deep in conversation with Sara Denison. 

“ Why, I’ll do my best, Miss Dalstan,” he prom- 
ised. ‘ You know what the boys are, though. They 
do love a story.” 

“Tam not going to have Mr. Ware’s story pub- 
lished in every newspaper in New York,” Elizabeth 
said firmly, “ and the newspaper man who worms the 
history of Mr. Ware’s misfortunes out of him, and 
then makes use of it, will be no friend of mine. Ask 
them to be sports, Mr. Fink, there’s a dear.” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 149 


*T’ll do what I can,” he promised. ‘ Mr. Ware 
isn’t the first man in the world who has funked the 
limelight, and from what I can see of him it probably 
wasn’t his fault if things did go a little crooked in 
the past. Ill do my best, Miss Dalstan, I promise 
you that. I'll look in at the club to-night and drop 
a few hints around. 

Elizabeth patted his hand and smiled at him very 
sweetly. ‘The conversation flowed back once more 
into its former channels, became a medley of con- 
fused chaff, disjointed streams of congratulation, of 
toast-drinking and pleasant speeches. Then Mr. 
Fink suddenly rose to his feet. 

** Say,” he exclaimed, “ we’ve all drunk one an- 
other’s healths. There’s just one other friend I 
think we ought to take a glass of wine with. Gee, 
he’d give something to be with us to-night! You’ll 
agree with me, Miss Dalstan, I know. Let’s empty 
a full glass to Sylvanus Power!” 

There was a curious silence for a second or two, 
then a clamour of assenting voices. For a single mo- 
ment Philip felt a sharp pang at his heart. Eliza- 
beth was gazing steadily out of the room, a queer 
tremble at her lips, a look in her eyes which puzzled 
him, a look almost of fear, of some sort of appre- 
hension. ‘The moment passed, but her enthusiasm, as 
she raised her glass, was a little overdone, her gaiety 
too easily assumed. 

“Why, of course!” she declared. ‘“ Fancy not 
thinking of Sylvanus!” 

They drank his health noisily. Philip set down 
his glass empty. A curious instinct kept his lips 
sealed. He crushed down and stifled the memory of 


150 THE CINEMA MURDER 


that sudden stab. He did not even ask the one 
natural question. 

‘Say, where is Sylvanus Power these days? ” Mr. 
Fink enquired. 

“In Honolulu, when last I heard,’? Elizabeth re- 
plied lightly, ** but then one never knows really where 
he is.” 

Philip became naturally the central figure of the 
little gathering. Mr. Fink was anxious to arrange a 
little dinner, to introduce him to some fellow workers. 
Noel Bridges insisted upon a card for the Lambs 
Club and a luncheon there. Philip accepted grate- 
fully everything that was offered to him. It was no 
good doing things by halves, he told himself. The 
days of his solitude were over. Even when, after the 
departure of his guests, he glanced for a moment into 
the anteroom beyond and remembered those few 
throbbing moments of suspense, they came back to 
him with a curious sense of unreality — they be- 
longed, surely, to some other man, living in some 
other world! 

“You are happy?” Elizabeth murmured, as she 
took his arm and they waited in the portico below 
for her automobile. 

He had no longer any idea of telling her of that 
disquieting visit. The touch of her hair blown 
against his cheek, as he had helped her on with her 
cloak, something in her voice, some slight diffidence, a 
queer, half expostulating look in the eyes that fell 
with a curious uneasiness before his, drove every 
thought of future danger out of his mind. He had 
at least the present! He answered without a mo- 
ment’s hesitation. 


THE CINEMA MURDER 151 


“For the first time in my life!” 

She gave the chauffeur a whispered order as she 
stepped into the car. 

. “J have told him to go home by Riverside Drive,” 
she said, as they glided off. “It is a little farther, 
and I love the air at this time of night.” 

He clasped her fingers — suddenly felt, with the 
leaning of her body, her heart beating against his. — 
With that wave of passion there was an instant and 
portentous change in their attitudes. The soft pro- 
tectiveness which had sometimes seemed to shine out 
of her face, to envelop him in its warmth, had dis- 
appeared. She was no longer the stronger. She 
looked at him almost with fear, and he was elec- 
trically conscious of all the vigour and strength of 
his stunted manhood, was master at last of his fate, 
accepting battle, willing to fight whatever might come 
for the sake of the joy of these moments. She crept 
into his arms almost humbly. 


CHAPTER III 


The success of “The House of Shams” was as 
immediate and complete as was the social success of 
its author. After a few faint-hearted attempts, 
Philip and Elizabeth both agreed that the wisest 
course was to play the bold game — to submit him- 
self to the photographer, the interviewer, and, to 
some judicious extent, to the wave of hospitality 
which flowed in upon him from all sides. He threw 
aside, completely and utterly, every idea of leading 
a more or less sheltered life. His photograph was 
in the Sunday newspapers and the magazines. It 
was quite easy, in satisfying the appetite of journal- 
ists for copious personal details, especially after the 
hints dropped by Mr. Fink, to keep them carefully 
off the subject of his immediate past. There had 
been many others in the world who, on attaining 
fame, had preferred to gloss over their earlier his- 
tory. It seemed to be tacitly understood amongst 
this wonderful freemasonry of newspaper men that 
Mr. Merton Ware was to be humoured in this way. 
He was a man of the present. Character sketches of 
him were to be all foreground. But, nevertheless, 
Philip had his trials. 

“Want to introduce you to one of our chief 
‘movie’ men,” Noel Bridges said to him one day in 
the smoking room of “ The Lambs.” ‘ He is much 


THE CINEMA MURDER 153 


interested in the play, too. Mr. Raymond Greene, 
shake hands with Mr. Merton Ware.” 

Mr. Raymond Greene, smiling and urbane, turned 
-around with outstretched hand, which Philip, cour- 
teous, and with all that charm of manner which was 
making him speedily one of the most popular young 
men in New York, grasped cordially. 

**T am very happy to meet you, Mr. Greene,” he 
said. “ You represent an amazing development. I 
am told that we shall all have to work for you pres- 
ently or find our occupation gone.” 

With a cool calculation which had come to Philip 
in these days of his greater strength, he had pur- 
posely extended his sentence, conscious, although ap- 
parently he ignored the fact, that all the time Mr. 
Raymond Greene was staring in his face with a be- 
wilderment which was not without its humorous side. 
He was too much a man of the world, this great pic- 
ture producer, to be at a loss for words, to receive 
an introduction with any degree of clumsiness. 

* But surely,” he almost stammered, “ we have 
met before? ” 

Philip shook his head doubtfully. 

“J don’t think so,” he said. “ As a matter of 
fact, I am sure we haven’t, because you are one of 
the men whom I hoped some day to come across over 
here. I couldn’t possibly have forgotten a meet- 
ing with you.” 

Mr. Raymond Greene’s blue eyes looked as though 
they saw visions. 

“ But surely,” he expostulated, “ the Elletantia — 
my table on the Elletania, when Miss Dalstan 
crossed —” 


154 THE CINEMA.MURDER 


Philip laughed easily. 

“Why,” he exclaimed, “ are you going to be like 
the others and take me for — wasn’t it Mr. Romilly? 
—the man who disappeared from the Waldorf? 
Why, I’ve been tracked all round New York because 
of my likeness to that man.” 

** Likeness!”? Mr. Raymond Greene muttered. 
** Likeness! ” 

There was a moment’s silence. Then Mr. Greene 
knew that the time had arrived for him to pull him- 
self together. He had carried his bewilderment to 
the very limits of good breeding. 

“Well, well!” he continued. “ Fortunately, it’s 
six o’clock, and I can offer you gentlemen a cocktail, 
for upon my word I need it! Come to look at you, 
Mr. Ware, there’s a trifle more what I might term 
savoir faire, about you. That chap on the boat was 
-a little crude in places, but believe me, sir,” he went 
on, thrusting his arm through Ware’s and leading 
him towards the bar, “ you don’t want to be an- 
noyed at those people who have mistaken you for 
Romilly, for in the whole course of my life, and I’ve 
travelled round the world a pretty good deal, I never 
came across a likeness so entirely extraordinary.” 

‘*{ have heard other people mention it,” Noel 
Bridges intervened, “ although not quite with the 
same conviction as you, Mr. Greene. Curiously 
enough, however, the photograph of Romilly which 
they sent out from England, and which was in all 
the Sunday papers, didn’t strike me as being par- 
ticularly like Mr. Ware.” 

“It was a damned bad photograph, that,” Mr. 
Raymond Greene pronounced. ‘“ I saw it — couldn’t 


THE CINEMA MURDER 155 


make head nor tail of it, myself. Well, the world 
is full of queer surprises, but this is the queerest I 
ever ran up against. Believe me, Mr. Ware, if this 
‘man Romilly who disappeared had been a millionaire, 
you could have walked into his family circle and been 
made welcome at the present moment. Why, I don’t 
believe his own wife or sister, if he had such ap- 
pendages, would have been able to tell that you © 
weren’t the man.” 

* Unfortunately,” Bridges remarked, as he sipped 
the cocktail which the cinema man had ordered, “ this 
chap Romilly was broke, wasn’t he? —did a scoot 
to avoid the smash-up? ‘They say that he had a 
few hundred thousand dollars over here, ostensibly 
for buying material, and that he has taken the lot 
out West.” 

“Well, I must say he didn’t seem that sort on 
the steamer,” Mr. Raymond Greene declared, “ but 
you never can tell. Looked to me more like a school- 
teacher. Some day, Mr. Ware, I want you to come 
along to my office —it’s just round the corner in 
Broadway there — and have a chat about the play.” 

“You don’t want to film us before we’ve finished 
its first run, surely?” Philip protested, laughing. 
“ Give us a chance!” 

** Well, we'll talk about that,” the cinema magnate 
promised. 

They were joined by other acquaintances, and 
Philip presently made his escape. One of the mo- 
ments which he had dreaded more than any other had 
come and passed. Even if Mr. Raymond Greene had 
still some slight misgivings, he was, to all effects and 
purposes, convinced. Philip walked down the street, 


‘156 THE CINEMA MURDER 


feeling that one more obstacle in the path of his ab- 
solute freedom had been'torn away. He glanced at 
his watch and boarded a down-town car, descended 
in the heart of the city region of Broadway, and 
threaded his way through several streets until he 
came to the back entrance of a dry goods store. 
Here he glanced once more at his watch and com- 
menced slowly to walk up and down. The time 
keeper, who was standing in the doorway with his 
hands in his pockets, watched him with interest. 
When Philip approached for the third time, he ad- 
dressed him in friendly fashion. 

** Waiting for one of our gals, eh? ” 

Philip stifled his quick annoyance and answered in 
as matter-of-fact a tone as possible. 

“Yes! How long will it be before they are out 
from the typewriting department? ” 

. © Typewriting department?” the man repeated. 

“Well, that depends some upon the work. They’ll 
be out, most likely, in ten minutes or so. I guessed 
you were after one of our showroom young ladies. 
We get some real swells down here sometimes — mo- 
tor cars of their own. The typists ain’t much, as a 
rule. It’s a skinny job, theirs.” 

“The young ladies from here appear to be pros- 
perous,” Ware remarked. “I watched them last 
night coming out. My friend happened to be late, 
and I had to leave without seeing her.” 

“ That’s nothing to go by, their clothes ain’t,” 
the man replied. ‘They spend all their money on 
their backs instead of putting it inside. If it’s Miss 
Grimes you’re waiting for, you’re in luck, for here 
she is, first out.” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 157 


Philip drew a little into the background. The 
girl came down the stone passage, passed the time- 
keeper without appearing to notice his familiar 
“ Good-evening!” and stepped out into the murky 
street. Philip, who saw her face as she emerged 
from the gloom, gave a little start. She seemed 
paler than ever, and she walked with her eyes fixed 
upon vacancy, as though almost unconscious of her 
whereabouts. She crossed the sidewalk without no- 
ticing the curbstone, and stumbled at the unexpected 
depth of it. Philip stepped hastily forward. 

“Miss Grimes!” he exclaimed. ‘“ Martha! .. 
Why do you look at me as though I were a ghost? ” 

She started violently. It was certain that she saw 
him then for the first time. 

“You! Mr. Ware! Sorry, I didn’t see you.” 

He insisted upon shaking hands. There was a 
little streak of colour in her cheeks now. 

“T came to meet you,” he explained. “I came 
yesterday and missed you. I have been to your 
rooms four times and only found out with difficulty 
where you were working. The last time I called, I 
rang the bell six times, but the door was locked.” 

‘I was in bed,” she said shortly. “I can’t have 
gentlemen callers there at all now. Father’s gone 
off on tour. ‘Thank you for coming to meet me, but 
I don’t think you’d better stop.” 

“Why not? ” he asked gently. 

“ Because I don’t want to be seen about with 
you,” she declared, “‘ because I don’t want you to 
look at me, because I want you to leave me alone,” 
she added, with a little passionate choke in her 
voice. 


158 THE CINEMA MURDER 


He turned and walked by her side. 

“ Martha,” he said, “ you were very kind to me 
when I needed it, you were a companion to me when 
I was more miserable than I ever thought any hu- 
man being could be. I was in a quandary then — 
in a very difficult position. I took a plunge. In a 
way I have been successful.” 

“Oh, we all know that!” she replied bitterly. 
“Pictures everywhere, notices in the paper all. the 
time — you and your fine play! I’ve seen it. Didn’t 
think much of it myself, but I suppose I’m not a 
judge.” 

“Tell me why you came out there looking as 
though you’d seen a ghost? ” he asked. 

** Discharged,” she answered promptly. 

66 Why? 99 

*“* Fainted yesterday,” she went on, “ and was a bit 
. wobbly to-day. ‘The head clerk said he wanted some 
one stronger.” 

“Brute!” Philip muttered. ‘“ Well, that’s all 
right, Martha. I have some work for you.” 

** Don’t want to do your work.” 

* Little fool!” he exclaimed. ‘ Martha, do you 
know you’re the most obstinate, pig-headed, preju- 
diced, ill-tempered little beast I ever knew? ” 

“Then go along and leave me,” she insisted, stop- 
ping short, “if I’m all that.” 

** You’re also a dear!” 

She drew a little breath and looked at him 
fiercely. | 

** Now don’t be silly,” he begged. ‘“ I’m starving. 
I had no lunch so that I could dine early. Here 
we are at Durrad’s.” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 159 


“Y’m not going inside there with you,” she de- 
clared. ; 

“Look here,” he expostulated, “are we going to 
do a wrestling act on the sidewalk? It will be in all 
the papers, you know.” 

‘Spoil your clothes some, wouldn’t it?” she re- 

marked, looking at them disparagingly. 
- “Jt would indeed, also my temper,” he assured 
her. ‘“ We are going to have a cocktail, you and I, 
within two minutes, young lady, and a steak after- 
wards. If you want to go in there with my hand 
on your neck, you can, but I think it would look 
better —” 

She set her feet squarely upon the ground and 
faced him. 

* Mr. Ware,” she said, “ I am in rags — any one 
can see that. Listen. I will not go into a res- 
taurant and sit by your side to have people wonder 
what woman from the streets you have brought in 
to give a meal to out of charity. Do you hear that? 
I can live or I can die, just by myself. If I can’t 
keep myself, I'll die, but I won’t. Nothing doing. 
You hear?” 

She had been so strong and then something in 
his eyes, that pitying, half anxious expression with 
which he listened, suddenly seemed to sap her de- 
termination. She swayed a little upon her feet — 
she was indeed very tired and very weak. Philip 
took instant advantage of her condition. Without 
a moment’s hesitation he passed his arm firmly 
through hers, and before she could protest she was 
inside the place, being led to a table, seated there 
with her back to the wall, with a confused tangle of 


160 THE CINEMA MURDER 


words still in her throat, unuttered. Then two great 
tears found their way into her eyes. She said noth- 
ing because she could not. Philip was busy talking 
to the waiter. Soon there was a cocktail by her 
side, and he was drinking, smiling at her, perfectly 
good-natured, obviously accepting her momentary 
weakness and his triumph as a joke. 

“Got you in, didn’t I?” he observed pleasantly. 
*“ Now, remember you told me the way to drink 
American SOC ae look, one swallow, and 
down they go.” 

She obeyed him instinctively. Then she. took out 
a miserable little piece of a handkerchief and wiped 
her eyes. 

“ What’s gone wrong?” he asked briskly. ‘“ Tell 
me all about it.” 

“Father went off on tour,” she explained. ‘“ He 
left the rent owing for a month, and he’s been writ- 
ing for money all the time. The agent who comes 
round doesn’t listen to excuses. You pay, or out 
you go into the street. I’ve paid somehow and 
nearly starved over it. Then I got this job after 
worrying about it Lord knows how long, and this 
evening I’m discharged.” 

“* How much a week was it?” he enquired, with 
sympathy. 

“Ten dollars,” she replied. ‘ Little enough, but 
I can’t live without it.” 

He changed his attitude, suddenly realismg the 
voleanic sensitiveness of her attitude towards him 
and life in general. Instinctively he felt that at a 
single ill-considered word she would even then, in 
her moment of weakness, have left him, have pushed 


THE CINEMA MURDER 161 


him on one side, and walked out to whatever she 
might have to face. 

“What a fool you are!” he exclaimed, a little 
brusquely. 

“ Am I!” she replied belligerently. 

“Of course you are! You call yourself a daugh- 
ter of New York, a city whose motto seems to be 
pretty well every one for himself. You know you 
did my typing all right, you know my play was a 
success, you know that I shall have to write an- 
other. What made you take it for granted that I 
shouldn’t want te employ you, and go and hide 
yourself? Lock the door when I came to see you, 
because it was past eight o’clock, and not answer my 
letters? ” 

**Can’t have men callers now dad’s away,” she 
told him, a little brusquely. “It’s not allowed.” 

“Oh, rubbish!” he answered irritably. ‘ That 
isn’t the point. You’ve kept away fromme. You’ve 
deliberately avoided me. You knew that I was just 
as lonely as you were.” 

Then she blazed out. The sallowness of her 
cheeks, the little dip under her cheekbones — she had 
grown thinner during the last week or so — made her 
eyes seem larger and more brilliant than ever. 

“You lonely! Rubbish! Why, they’re all run- 
ning after you everywhere. Quite a social success, 
according to the papers! I say, ain’t you afraid? ” 

** Horribly,” he admitted, “‘ and about the one per- 
son I could have talked to about it chucks me.” 

“ TI don’t know anything about you, or what you’ve 
done,” she said. “I only know that the tecs —” 

He laid his hand upon her fingers. She snatched 


162 THE CINEMA MURDER 


them away but accepted his warning. They were — 
served then with their meal, and their conversation 
drifted into other channels. 

“Well,” he continued presently, in a perfectly 
matter-of-fact tone, “ I’ve found you now, and you’ve 
got to be sensible. It’s true I’ve had a stroke of 
luck, but that might fall away at any moment. I’ve 
typing waiting for you, or I can get you a post at 
the New York Theatre. You’d better first do my 
typing. I'll have it in your rooms to-morrow morn- 
ing by nine o’clock. And would you like something 
in advance? ” 

** No!” she replied grudgingly. “Ill have what 
I’ve earned, when I’ve earned it.” 

He sipped his claret and studied her meditatively. 

** You’re not much of a pal, are you? ” . 

She scoffed at him, looked him up and down, at 
his well-fitting clothes, his general air of prosperity. 

“Pal!” she jeered. ‘* Look at you — Merton 
Ware, the great dramatist, and me — a shabby, ugly, 
bad-tempered, indifferent typewriter. Bad-tem- 
pered,” she repeated. ‘“ Yes, I am that. I didn’t 
start out to be. I just haven’t had any luck.” 

“ It will all come some day,” he assured her cheer- 
fully. 

“T think if you’d stayed different,” she went on 
thoughtfully, “if you hadn’t slipped away into the 
clouds . . . shows what a selfish little beast I am! 
Can’t imagine why you bother about me.” 

“‘ Shall I tell you why, really?” he asked. “ Be- 
cause you saved me—TI don’t know what from. 
The night we went out I was suffering from a lone- 
liness which was the worst torture I have ever felt. 


THE CINEMA MURDER 163 


It was there in my throat and dragging down my 
heart, and I just felt as though any way of ending 
it all would be a joy. All these millions of hard- 
faced people, intent on their own prosperity or their 
own petty troubles, goaded me, I think, into a sort 
of silent fury. Just that one night I craved like a 
madman for a single human‘being to talk to — well, 
I shall never forget it, Martha —” 

* Miss Grimes!” she interrupted under her breath. 

He laughed. 

_ “That doesn’t really matter, does it?” he asked. 
*You’ve never been afraid that I should want to 
make love to you, have you? ” 

She glanced round into the mirror by their side, 

looked at her wan face, the shabby little hat, the 
none too tidily arranged hair which drooped ‘over 
her ears; down at her shapeless jacket, her patched 
skirt, the shoes which were in open rebellion. Then 
she laughed, curiously enough without any note of 
bitterness. 
_ Seems queer, doesn’t it, even to think of such a 
thing! I’ve been up against it pretty hard, though. 
A man who gives a meal to a girl, even if she is as 
plain as I am, generally seems to think he’s bought 
her, in this city. Even the men who are earning 
money don’t give much for nothing. But you are 
different,” she admitted. “I'll be fair about 1t — 
you’re different.” 

* You'll be waiting for the work at nine o’clock 
to-morrow morning?” he asked, as indifferently as 
possible. 

“JT will,” she promised. 

He leaned back and told her little anecdotes about 


164 THE CINEMA MURDER 


the play, things that had happened to him during 
the last few weeks, speaking often of Elizabeth Dal- 
stan. By degrees the nervous unrest seemed to pass 
away from her. When they had finished their meal 
and drunk their coffee, she was almost normal. She 
smoked a cigarette and even accepted the box which 
he thrust into her hand. When he had paid the bill, 
she rose a little abruptly. 

“‘ Well,” she said, “ you’ve had your way, and a 
kind, nice way it was. Now I'll have mine. I don’t 
want any politeness. When we leave this place I 
am going to walk home, and I am going to walk home 
alone.” 

“ That’s lucky,” he replied, “* because I have to be 
at the theatre in ten minutes to meet a cinema man. . 
Button up your coat and have a good night’s sleep.” 

They left the place together. She turned away 
with a farewell nod and walked rapidly eastwards. 
He watched her cross the road. A poor little waif, 
she seemed, except that something had gone from 
her face which had almost terrified him. She car- 
ried herself, he fancied, with more buoyancy, with 
infinitely more confidence, and he drew a sigh of 
relief as he called for a taxi. 


CHAPTER IV 


Elizabeth paused for breath at the top of the 
third flight of stairs. She leaned against the iron 
balustrade. 

* You poor dear!” she exclaimed. “ How many 
times a day did you have to do this? ” 

“I didn’t go out very often,” he reminded her, 
“and it wasn’t every day that the lift was out of 
order. It’s only one more flight.” 

She looked up the stairs, sighed, and raised her 
smart, grey, tailor-made skirt a little higher over 
her shoes. 

“Well,” she announced heroically, “lead on. If 
they would sometimes dust these steps — but, after 
all, it doesn’t matter to you now, does it? Fancy 
that poor girl, though.” 

He smiled a little grimly. 

“A few flights of stairs aren’t the worst things 
she has had to face, I’m afraid,” he said. 

“J am rather terrified of her,” Elizabeth con- 
fided, supporting herself by her companion’s shoul- 
der. “I think I know that ultra-independent type. 
Kick me if I put my foot init. Is this the door? ” 

Philip nodded and knocked softly. ‘There was a 
sharp “ Come in!” 

“Put the key down, please,” the figure at the 
typewriter said, as they entered. 


166 THE CINEMA MURDER 
The words had scarcely left Martha’s lips before 


she turned around, conscious of some other influence 
in the room. Philip stepped forward. 

“Miss Grimes,” he said, “I have brought Miss 
Dalstan in to see you. She wants —” 

He paused. Something in the stony expression 
of the girl who had risen to her feet and stood now 
facing them, her ashen paleness unrelieved by any 
note of colour, her hands hanging in front of her — 
patched and shabby frock, seemed to check the words 
upon his lips. Her voice was low but not soft. It 
seemed to create at once an atmosphere of anger 
and resentment. | 

“What do you want?” she demanded. 

“I hope you don’t mind—TI am so anxious that 
you should do some work for me,” Elizabeth ex~ 
plained. “ When Mr. Ware first brought me in his 
play, I noticed how nicely it was typewritten. You 
must have been glad to find it turn out such a suc- 
cess.” 

‘““T take no interest in my work when once it is 
typed,” Martha Grimes declared, “and I am very 
sorry but I do not like to receive visitors. I am 
very busy. Mr. Ware knows quite well that I like to 
be left alone.” 

Elizabeth smiled at her delightfully. 

“ But it isn’t always good for us, is it,” she re- 
minded her, “ to live exactly as we would like, or to 
have our own way in all things? ” 

There was a moment’s rather queer silence. 
Martha Grimes seemed to be intent upon studying 
the appearance of her visitor, the very beautiful 
woman familiar to nearly every one in New York, 


THE CINEMA MURDER 167 


perhaps at that moment America’s most popular 
actress. Her eyes seemed to dwell upon the little 
strands of fair hair. that escaped from beneath her 
smart but simple hat, to take in the slightly depre- 
cating lift of the eyebrows, the very attractive, half 
appealing smile, the smart grey tailormade gown 
with the bunch of violets in her waistband. Eliza- 
beth was as quietly dressed as it was possible for her 
to be, but her appearance nevertheless brought a 
note of some other world into the shabby little apart- 
ment. ) 

“It’s the only thing I ask of life,”” Martha said, 
“the only thing I get. I want to be left alone, and 
I will be left alone. If there is any more work, 
I will do it. If there isn’t, I can find some some- 
where else. But visitors I don’t want and won’t 
have.” 

Elizabeth was adorably patient. She surrepti- 
tiously drew towards her a cane chair, a doubtful- 
looking article of furniture upon which she seated 
herself slowly and with great care. 

“ Well,” she continued, with unabated pleasant- 
ness, “ that is reasonable as far as it goes, only we 
didn’t quite understand, and it is such a climb up 
here, isn’t it? I came to talk about some work, but 
I must get my breath first.” 

“ Miss Dalstan thought, perhaps,” Philip inter- 
vened diffidently, “that you might consider accept- 
ing a post at the theatre. They always keep two 
stenographers there, and one of them fills up her time 
by private work, generally work for some one con- 
nected with the theatre. In your case you could, of 
course, go on with mine, only when I hadn’t enough 


168 THE CINEMA MURDER 


for you, and of course I can’t compose as fast as 
you can type, there would be something’ else, and the 
salary would be regular.” 

**T should like a regular post,” the girl admitted 
sullenly. ‘So would any one who’s out of work, of 
course.” 

“The salary,” Elizabeth explained, “is twenty- 
five dollars a week. The hours are nine to six. You 
have quite a comfortable room there, but when you 
have private work connected with the theatre you 
can bring it home if you wish. Mr. Ware tells me 
that you work very quickly. You will finish all that 
you have for him to-day, won’t you?” 

“‘T shall have it finished in half an hour.” 

“Then will you be at the New York Theatre to- 
morrow morning at nine o’clock,” Elizabeth sug- 
gested. ‘“ There are some parts to be copied. It 
. will be very nice indeed if you like the work, and I 
think you will.” 

The girl stood there, irresolute. It was obvious 
that she was trying to bring herself to utter some 
form of thanks. Then there was a loud knock at 
the door, which was opened without waiting for any 
reply. The janitor stood there with a small key 
in his hand, which he threw down upon a table. 

“Key of number two hundred, miss,” he said. 
“Let me have it back again to-night.” 

He closed the door and departed. 

“Two hundred?” Philip exclaimed. ‘“ Why, 
that’s my old room, the one up above.” 

“I must see it,”? Elizabeth insisted. “ Do please 
let us go up there. I meant to ask you to show it 
me.” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 169 


“You are not thinking of moving, are you, Miss 
Grimes?” Philip enquired. 

‘She snatched at the key, but he had just pos- 
sessed himself of it and was swinging it from his 
forefinger. 

“TI don’t know,” she snapped. “I was going up 
there, anyway. You can’t have the key to-day.” 

“Why not? ” Philip asked in surprise. 

** Never mind. There are some things of mine up 
there. JI —” 

She broke off. They both looked at her, per- 
plexed. Philip shook his head good-naturedly. 

“Miss Grimes,” he said, “ you forget that the 
rooms are mine till next quarter day. I promise you 
we will respect any of your belongings we may find 
there. Come along, Elizabeth.” 

** We'll see you as we come down,” the Tatter prom- 
ised, nodding pleasantly. 

“JT don’t know as you will,” the girl retorted 
fiercely. “‘I may not be here.” 

They climbed the last two flights of stairs to- 
gether. 

“What an extraordinary young woman!” Eliza- 
beth exclaimed. ‘Is there any reason for her being 
quite so rude to me? ” 

“ None that I can conceive,” he answered. ‘“ She 
is always like that.” 

“ And yet you took an interest in her!” 

‘Why not? She is human, soured by misfortune, 
if you like, with an immense stock of bravery and 
honesty underneath it all. She has had a drunken 
father practically upon her hands, and life’s been 
pretty sordid for her. Here we are.” 


170 THE CINEMA MURDER 


He fitted the key into the lock and swung the door 
open. ‘The clear afternoon light shone in upon the 
little shabby room and its worn furniture. There 
were one or two insignificant belongings of Philip’s 
still lying about the place, and on the writing-table, 
exactly opposite the spot where he used to sit, a 
little blue vase, in which was a bunch of violets. 
Somehow or other it was the one arresting object 
in the room. They both of them looked at it in 
equal amazement. 

“Is any one living here?” Elizabeth enquired. 

* Not to my knowledge,” he replied. “ No one 
could take it on without my signing a release.” 

They moved over to the desk. Elizabeth stooped 
down and smelt the violets, lifted them up and looked 
at the cut stalks. _ 

“Is this where you used to sit and write?” she 
“asked. 

He nodded. 

“ But I never had any flowers here,” he observed, 
gazing at them in a puzzled manner. 

Elizabeth looked at the vase and set it down. 
Then she turned towards her companion and shook 
her head. 

“Oh, my dear Philip,” she sighed, “ you really 
don’t know what makes that girl so uncouth? ” 

“You mean Martha? Of course I don’t. You 
think that she . . . Rubbish!” 

He stopped short in sudden confusion. Elize- 
beth passed her arm through his. She replaced the 
vase very carefully, looked once more around the 
room, and led him to the door. 

“ Never mind,” she said. “It isn’t anything 


THE CINEMA MURDER 171 


serious, of course, but it’s wonderful, Philip, what 
memories a really lonely woman will live on, what 
she will do to keep that little natural vein of senti- 
ment alive in her, and how fiercely she will fight to 
conceal it. You can go on down and wait for me 
in the hall. I am going in to say good-by to Miss 
Martha Grimes. I think that this time I shall get 
on better with her.” 


CHAPTER V 


Philip waited nearly a quarter of an hour for 
Elizabeth. When at last she returned, she was un- 
usually silent. They drove off together in her au- 
tomobile. She held his fingers under the rug. 

“Philip dear,” she said, “I think it is time that 
you and I were married.” 

He turned and looked at her in amazement. ‘There 
was a smile upon her lips, but rather a plaintive 
one. He had a fancy, somehow, that there had been 
tears in her eyes lately. 

6 Elizabeth! ” 

“If we are ever going to be,” she went on softly, 
“why shouldn’t we be married quietly, as people are 
sometimes, and then tell every one afterwards? ” 

He held the joy away from him, struggling hard 
for composure. 

* But a little time ago,” he reminded her, “ you 
wanted to wait.” 

* Yes,” she confessed, “ I, too, had my — my what 
shall I call it—fear?—my ghost in the back- 
ground? ” 

“ Ah! but not like mine,” he faltered, his voice 
unsteady with a surging flood of passion. “ Eliza- 
beth, if you really mean it, if you are going to take 
the risk of finding yourself the wife of the villain in 
a cause célébre, why — why — you know very well 


THE CINEMA MURDER 173 


that even the thought of it can draw me up into 
heaven. But, dear—my sweetheart — remember! 
We’ve played a bold game, or rather I have with your 
encouragement, but we’re not safe yet.” 

** Do you know anything that I don’t? ” she asked 
feverishly. : 

“Well, I suppose I do,” he admitted. “It isn’t 
necessarily serious,” he went on quickly, as he saw 
the colour fade from her cheeks, “ but on the very 
night that our play was produced, whilst I was wait- 
ing about for you all at the restaurant, a man came 
to see me. He is one of the keenest detectives in 
New York — Edward Dane his name is. He knew 
perfectly well that I was the man who had disap- 
peared from the Waldorf. He told me so to my 
face.” 

“Then why didn’t he — why didn’t he do some- 
thing? ” 

** Because he was clever enough to suspect that 
there was something else behind it all,” Philip said 
grimly. ‘“ You see, he’d discovered that I hadn’t 
used any of the money. He couldn’t fit in any of 
my doings with the reports they’d had about Douglas. 
Somehow or other — I can’t tell how — another sus- 
picion seems to have crept into the man’s brain. 
All the time he talked to me I could see him trying 
to read in my face whether there wasn’t something 
else! He’d stumbled across a puzzle of which the 
pieces didn’t fit. He has gone to England — gone 
to Detton Magna — gone to see whether there are 
any missing pieces to be found. He may be back 
any day now.” 

** But what could he discover?” she faltered. 


174 THE CINEMA MURDER 


“God knows!” Philip groaned. ‘* There’s the 
whole ghastly truth there, if fortune helped him, and 
he were clever enough, if by any devilish chance the 
threads came into his hand. I don’t think —I don’t 
think there was ever any fear from the other side. 
I had all the luck. But, Elizabeth, sometimes I am 
terrified of this man Dane. I didn’t mean to tell 
you this, but it’s too late now. Do you know that 
I am watched, day by day? I pretend not to notice 
it —I am even able, now and then, to shut it out 
from my own thoughts — but wherever I go there’s 
some one shadowing me, some one walking in my 
footsteps. Dm perfectly certain that if you were to 
go to police headquarters here, you could find out 
where I have spent almost every hour since I took 
that room in Monmouth House.” 

She gripped his fingers fiercely. 

* Philip! Philip!” 

He leaned forward, gazing with peculiar, almost 
passionate intentness, into the faces of the people as 
they swept along Broadway. 

“ Look at them, Elizabeth!” he muttered. ‘“ Look 
at that mob of men and women sweeping along the 
pavements there, every kind and shape of man, every 
nationality, every age! They are like the little 
flecks on the top of a wave. I watched them when 
I first came and I felt almost reckless. You’d think 
a man could plunge in there and be lost, wouldn’t 
you? Hecan’t! I tried it. Is there anywhere else 
in the world, I wonder? Is there anywhere in the 
living world where one can throw off everything of 
the past, where one can take up a new life, and 
memory doesn’t come? ” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 175 


She shook her head. She was more composed now. 
The moment of feverish excitement had passed. Her 
shrewd and level common sense had begun to reassert 
itself. 

*‘ There isn’t any such place, Philip,” she told him, 
* and if there were it wouldn’t be worth while your 
trying to find it. We are both a little hysterical this 
evening. We’ve lost our sense of proportion. 
You’ve played for your stake. You mustn’t quail; 
if the worst should come, you must brave it out. 
I believe, even then, you would be safe. But it won’t 
come — it shan’t!” 

He gripped her hands. They were slowing up 
now, caught in a maze of heavy traffic a few blocks 
from the theatre. His voice was firm. He had re- 
gained his self-control. 

“What an idiot I have been!” he apa scorn- 
fully. ‘‘ Never mind, that’s past. There is just 
one more serious word, though, dear.” 

She responded immediately to the change in his 
manner, and smiled into his face. 

“Well? ” 

“‘ My only real problem,” he went on earnestly, “ 
this. Dare I hold you to your word, Elizabeth? 
Dare I, for instance, say ‘ yes’ to the wonderful sug- 
gestion of yours?—make you my wife and risk 
having people look at you in years to come, point 
at you with pity and say that you married a mur- 
derer who died a shameful death! Fancy how the 
tragedy of that would lie across your life — you who 
are so wonderful and so courted and so clever!” 

“Tsn’t that my affair, Philip? ” she asked calmly: 

“ No,” he answered, * it’s mine! ” 


176 THE CINEMA MURDER 


She turned and laughed at him. For a moment 
she was her old self again. 

“You refuse me? ” 

His eyes glowed. 

* We'll wait,” he said hoarsely, “ till Dane comes 
back from England!” 

The car had stopped outside the theatre. Hat in 
hand, and with his face wreathed in smiles, the com- 
missionaire had thrown open the door. The people 
on the pavement were nudging one another — 
a famous woman was about to descend. She turned 
back to Philip. 

**Come in with me,” she begged. ‘‘ Somehow, I 
feel cold and lonely to-night. It hasn’t anything 
ta do with what we were talking about, but I feel as 
though something were going to happen, that some- 
thing were coming out of the shadows, something 
‘that threatens either you or me. I’m silly, but 
come.” 

She clung to him as they crossed the pavement. 
For once she forgot to smile at the little curious 
crowd. She was absorbed in herself and her feelings. 

“Life is so hard sometimes!” she exclaimed, as 
they lingered for a moment near the box office. 
“ 'There’s that poor girl, Philip, friendless and lonely. 
What she must suffer! God help her — God help 
us all! I am sick with loneliness myself, Philip. 
Don’t leave me alone. Come with me to my room. 
I only want to see if there are any letters. We'll 
go somewhere near and dine first, before I change. 
Philip, what is the matter with me? I don’t want 
to go a step alone. I don’t want to be alone for a 
moment.” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 177 


He laughed reassuringly and drew her closer to 
him. She led the way down the passage towards 
her own suite of apartments. They passed one or 
two of the officials of the theatre, whom she greeted 
with something less than her usual charm of man- 
ner. As they reached the manager’s office there 
was the sound of loud voices, and the door was 
thrown open. Mr. Fink appeared, and with him a 
somewhat remarkable figure—a tall, immensely 
broad, ill-dressed man, with a strong, rugged face 
and a mass of grey hair; a huge man, who seemed, 
somehow or other, to proclaim himself of a bigger 
and stronger type than those others amongst whom 
he moved. He had black eyes, and the heavy jaw of 
an Irishman. His face was curiously unwrinkled. 
He stood there, blocking the way, his great hands 
suddenly thrust forward. 

** Betty, by the Lord that loves us!” he exclaimed. 
“* Here’s luck! I was on my way out to search for 
you. Got here on the Chicago Limited at four 
o’clock. Give me your hands and say that you are 
glad to see me.” 

If Elizabeth were glad, she showed no sign of it. 
She seemed to have become rooted to the spot, sud- 
denly dumb. Philip, by her side, heard the quick 
indrawing of her breath. 

“Sylvanus!” she murmured. “ You! Why, I 
thought you were in China.” 

“ There’s no place on God’s earth can hold me for 
long,” was the boisterous reply. “I did my busi- 
ness there in three days and caught a Japanese 
boat back. Such a voyage and such food! But 
New York will make up for that. You’ve got a 


178 | THE CINEMA MURDER 


great play, they tell me. I must hear all about it. 
Shake my hands first, though, girl, as though you 
were glad to see me. You seem to have shrunken 
since I saw you last—to have grown smaller. 
Didn’t London agree with you? ” 

The moment of shock had passed. Elizabeth had 
recovered herself. She gave the newcomer her hands 
quite frankly. She even seemed, in a measure, glad 
to see him. | 

‘These unannounced comings and goings of yours 
from the ends of the earth are so upsetting to your 
friends,” she declared. 

“And this gentleman? Who is he? ” 

Elizabeth laughed softly. 

““T needn’t tell you, Mr. Ware,” she said, turning 
to Philip, * that this dear man here is an eccentric. 
I dare say you’ve heard of him. It is Mr. Sylvanus 
Power, and Sylvanus, this is Mr. Merton Ware, the 
author of our play —‘ The House of Shams.’ ” 

Philip felt his hand held in a grasp which, firm 
though it was, seemed to owe its vigour rather to. 
the long, powerful fingers than to any real cordiality. 
Mr. Sylvanus Power was studying him from be- 
hind his bushy eyebrows. 

“So youre Merton Ware,” he observed. “I 
haven’t seen your play yet — hope to to-night. An 
Englishman, eh? ” 

“Yes, I am English,” Philip assented coolly. 
**'You come from the West, don’t you? ” 

There was a moment’s silence. Elizabeth laughed 
softly. | 

“© Oh, there’s no mistake about Mr. Power!” she 
declared. ‘* He brings the breezy West with him, to 


THE CINEMA MURDER 179 


Wall Street or Broadway, Paris or London. You 
can’t shake it off or blow it away.” 

“ And I don’t know as I am particularly anxious 
to, either,” Mr. Power pronounced. “ Are you go- 
ing to your rooms here, Betty? If so, I’ll come 
along. I guess Mr. Ware will excuse you.” 

Philip was instantly conscious of the antagonism 
in the other’s manner. As yet, however, he felt little 
more than amusement. He glanced towards Eliza- 
beth, and the look in her face startled him. The 
colour had once more left her cheeks and her eyes 
were full of appeal. 

“Tf you wouldn’t mind?” she begged. “ Mr. 
Power is a very old friend and we haven’t met for so 
long.” 

“You needn’t expect to see anything more of 
Miss Dalstan to-night, either of you,” the newcomer 
declared, drawing her hand through his arm, “ ex- 
cept on the stage, that is. I am going to take her 
out and give her a little dinner directly. Au revoir, 
Fink! T’Il see you to-night here. Good-day to you, 
Mr. Ware.” 

Philip stood for a moment motionless. The voice 
of Mr. Sylvanus Power was no small thing, and he 
was conscious that several of the officials of the 
place, and the man in the box office, had heard every 
word that had passed. He felt, somehow, curiously 
ignored. He watched the huge figure of the West- 
erner, with Elizabeth by his side, disappear down 
the corridor. Mr. Fink, who had also been looking 
after them, turned towards him. 

“‘ Say, that’s some man, Sylvanus Power!” he ex- 
claimed admiringly. “ He is one of our multi-mil- 


180 THE CINEMA MURDER 


lionaires, Mr. Ware. What do you think of him? * 

** So far as one can judge from a few seconds’ con- 
versation,” Philip remarked, “he seems to possess 
all the qualities essential to the production of a multi- 
millionaire in this country.” 

Mr. Fink grinned. 

“ Sounds a trifle sarcastic, but I guess he’s a new 
type to you,” he observed tolerantly. 

** Absolutely,” Philip acknowledged, as he turned 
and made his way slowly out of the theatre. 


CHAPTER VI 


Philip’s disposition had been so curiously affected 
by the emotions of the last few months that he was 
not in the least surprised to find himself, that eve- 
ning, torn by a very curious and unfamiliar spasm of 
jealousy. After an hour or so of indecision he made 
his way, as usual, to the theatre, but instead of 
going at once to Elizabeth’s room, he slipped in at 
the back of the stalls. ‘The house was crowded, and, 
seated in the stage box, alone and gloomy, his some- 
what austere demeanour intensified by the severity 
of his evening clothes, sat Sylvanus Power with the 
air of a conqueror. Philip, unaccountably restless, 
left his seat in a very few minutes, and, making his 
way to the box office, scribbled a line to Elizabeth. 
The official to whom he handed it looked at him in 
surprise. 

*Won’t you go round yourself, Mr. Ware?” he 
suggested. ‘Miss Dalstan has another ten min- 
utes before she is on.” 

Philip shook his head. 

“T’m looking for a man I know,” he replied 
evasively. “TI’ll be somewhere about here in five 
minutes.” 

The answer came in less than that time. It was 
just a scrawled line in pencil: 


182 THE CINEMA MURDER 


Forgive me, dear. I will explain everything in the 
morning, if you will come to my rooms at eleven o’clock. 
This evening I have a hateful duty to perform and I 
cannot see you. 


Philip, impatient of the atmosphere of the theatre, 
wandered out into the streets with the note in his 
pocket. Broadway was thronged with people, a 
heterogeneous, slowly-moving throng, the hardest 
crowd to apprehend, to understand, of any in the 
world. He looked absently into the varying stream 
of faces, stared at the whirling sky-signs, the lights 
flashing from the tall buildings, heard snatches of 
the music from the open doors of the cafés and res- 
taurants. Men, and even women, elbowed him, un- 
resenting, out of the way, without the semblance of 
an apology. It seemed to him that his presence 
there, part of the drifting pandemonium of the 
pavement, was in a sense typical of his own existence 
in New York. He had given so much of his life 
into another’s hands and now the anchor was drag- 
ging. He was suddenly confronted with the possi- - 
bility of a rift in his relations with Elizabeth; with 
a sudden surging doubt, not of Elizabeth herself but 
simply a feeling of insecurity with regard to their 
future. He only realised in those moments how much 
he had leaned upon her, how completely. she seemed 
to have extended over him and his troubled life some 
sort of sheltering influence, to which he had suc- 
cumbed with an effortless, an almost fatalistic 1m- 
pulse, finding there, at any rate, a refuge from the 
horrors of his empty days. It was all abstract and 
impersonal at first, this jealousy which had come so 
suddenly to disturb the serenity of an almost too per- 


THE CINEMA MURDER 183 


fect day, but as the hours passed it seemed to him 
that his thoughts dwelt more often upon the direct 
cause of his brief separation from Elizabeth. He 
turned in at one of the clubs of which he had been 
made a member, and threw himself gloomily into an 
easy-chair. His thoughts had turned towards the 
grim, masterful personality of the man who seemed 
to have obtruded himself upon their lives. What did 
it mean when Elizabeth told him she was engaged for 
to-night? She was supping with him somewhere — 
probably at that moment seated opposite to him at 
a small, rose-shaded table in one of the many res- 
taurants of the city which they had visited together. 
He, Sylvanus Power, his supplanter, was occupying 
the place that belonged to him, ordering her supper, 
humouring her little preferences, perhaps sharing 
with her that little glow of relief which comes with the 
hour of rest, after the strain of the day’s work. The 
suggestion was intolerable. To-morrow he would 
have an explanation! Elizabeth belonged to him. 
The sooner the world knew it, the better, and this 
man first of all. He read her few lines again, hastily 
pencilled, and evidently written standing up. There 
was a certain ignominy in being sent about his busi- 
ness, just because this colossus from the West had 
appeared and claimed — what? Not his right!— 
he could have no right! What then?... 

Philip ordered a drink, tore open an evening paper, 
and tried to read. The letters danced before his 
eyes, the whisky and soda stood neglected at his el- 
bow. Afterwards he found himself looking into 
space. There was something cynical, challenging al- 
most, in the manner in which that man had taken 


184 THE CINEMA MURDER 


Elizabeth away from him, had acknowledged his in- 
troduction, even had treated the author of a play, a 
writer, as some sort of a mountebank, making his 
living by catering for the amusements of the world. 
How did that man regard such gifts as his, he won- 
dered? — Sylvanus Power, of whom he had seen it 
written that he was one of the conquerors of nature, 
a hard but splendid utilitarian, the builder of rail- 
ways in China and bridges for the transit of his 
metals amid the clouds of the mountain tops. In the 
man’s absence, his harshness, almost uncouthness, 
seemed modified. He was a rival, without a doubt, 
and to-night a favoured one. How well had he 
known Elizabeth? For howlong? Was it true, that 
rumour he had once heard — that the first step in 
her fortunes had been due to the caprice of a mil- 
lionaire? He found the room stifling, but the 
thought of the streets outside unnerved him. He 
looked about for some distraction. 

The room was beginning to fill— actors, musi- 
cians, a few journalists, a great many men of note 
‘in the world of Bohemia kept streaming in. One 
or two of them nodded to him, several paused to. 
speak. 

“ Hullo, Ware!” Noel Bridges exclaimed. ‘* Not 
often you give us a look in. What are you doing 
with yourself here all alone? ” 

Philip turned to answer him, and suddenly felt 
the fire blaze up again. He saw his questioner’s 
frown, saw him even bite his lip as though con- 
scious of having said a tactless thing. The actor 
probably understood the whole situation well 
enough. 


THE CINEMA MURDER | 185 


“TI generally go into the Lotus,” Philip lied. 
“ To-night I had a fancy to come here.” 

“The Lotus is too far up town for us fellows,” 
Bridges remarked. ‘ We need a drink, a little sup- 
per, and to see our pals quickly when the night’s 
work is over. I hear great things of the new play, 
Mr. Ware, but I don’t know when you'll get a 
chance to produce it. Were you in the house to- 
night? ” 

* Only for a moment.” 

“Going stronger than ever,” Bridges continued 
impressively. ‘ Yes, thanks, I’ll take a Scotch high- 
ball,” he added, in response to Philip’s mute invita- 
tion, “ plenty of ice, Mick. There wasn’t a seat to 
be had in the house, and I wouldn’t like to say what 
old Fink had to go through before he could get his 
box for the great Sylvanus.” 

* His box? ” Philip queried. 

“The theatre belongs to Sylvanus Power, you 
know,” Bridges explained. ‘“ He built it five years 
ago.” 

“For a speculation? ” 

The actor fidgeted for a moment with his tumbler. 

“No, for Miss Dalstan,” he replied. 

Philip set his teeth hard. The temptation to pur- 
sue the conversation was almost overpowering. The 
young man himself, though a trifle embarrassed, 
seemed perfectly willing to talk. At least it was 
better to know the truth! Then another impulse 
suddenly asserted itself. Whatever he was to know 
he must learn from her lips and from hers only. 

“ Well, I should think it’s turned out all right,” he 
remarked. 


186 THE CINEMA MURDER ~ 
Noel Bridges shrugged his shoulders.. 


‘The rent, if it were figured out at a fair in- 
terest on the capital, would be something fabulous,” 
he declared. ‘‘ You see, the place was extrava- 
gantly built — without any regard to cost. The 
dressing rooms, as you may have noticed, are won- 
derful, and all the appointments are unique. I don’t 
fancy the old man’s ever had a quarter’s rent yet 
that’s paid him one per cent. on the money. See 
you later, perhaps, Mr. Ware,” the young man con- 
cluded, setting down his tumbler. “I’m going in 
to have a grill. Why don’t you come along? ” 

Philip hesitated for a second and then, somewhat 
to the other’s surprise, assented. He was conscious 
that he had been, perhaps, just a little unresponsive 
to the many courtesies which had been offered him 
here and. at the other kindred clubs. They had been 
ready to receive him with open arms, this little fra- 
ternity of brain-workers, and his response had been, 
perhaps, a little doubtful, not from any lack of ap- 
preciation but partly from that curious diffidence, 
so hard to understand but so fundamentally Eng- 
lish, and partly because of that queer sense of being | 
an impostor which sometimes swept over him, a sense 
that he was, after all, only the ghost of another man, 
living a subjective life; that, reason it out however 
he might, there was something of the fraud in any 
personality he might adopt. And yet, deep down 
in his heart he was conscious of so earnest a desire 
to be really one of them, this good-natured, good- 
hearted, gay-spirited little throng, with their de- 
lightful intimacies, their keen interest in each other’s 
welfare, their potent, almost mysterious geniality, 


THE CINEMA MURDER 187 


which seemed to draw the stranger of kindred tastes 
so closely under its influence. Philip, as he sat at 
the long table with a dozen or so other men, did 
his best that night to break through the fetters, 
tried hard to remember that his place amongst them, 
after all, was honest enough. ‘They were writers and 
actors and journalists. Well, he too was a writer. 
He had written a play which they had welcomed with 
open arms, as they had done him. In this world of 
Bohemia, if anywhere, he surely had a right to lft 
up his head and breathe — and he would do it. He 
sat with them, smoking and talking, until the little 
company began to thin out, establishing all the time 
a new reputation, doing a great deal to dissipate 
that little sense of disappointment which his former 
non-responsiveness had created. 

*‘He’s a damned good fellow, after all,” one of 
them declared, as at last he left the room. “ He is 
losing his Britishness every day he stays here.” 

“ Been through rough times, they say,” another 
remarked. 

*“* He is one of those,” an elder member pronounced, 
_ taking his pipe for a moment from his mouth, “ who 
was never made for happiness. You can always read 
those men. You can see it behind their eyes.” 

Nevertheless, Philip walked home a saner and a 
better man. He felt somehow warmed by those few 
hours of companionship. ‘The senseless part of his 
jealousy was gone, his trust in Elizabeth reéstab- 
lished. He looked at the note once more as he un- 
dressed. At eleven o’clock on the following morning 
in her rooms! 


CHAPTER VII 


Something of his overnight’s optimism remained 
with Philip when at eleven o’clock on the following 
morning he was ushered into Elizabeth’s rooms. It 
was a frame of mind, however, which did not long sur- 
vive his reception. From the moment of his arrival, 
he seemed to detect a different atmosphere in his 
surroundings,— the demeanour of Phoebe, his 
staunch ally, who admitted him without her usual 
welcoming smile; the unanalysable sense of something 
wanting in the dainty little room, overfilled with 
’ strong-smelling, hothouse flowers in the entrance and 
welcome of Elizabeth herself. His eyes had ached for 
the sight of her. He was so sure that he would know 
everything the moment she spoke. Yet her coming 
brought only confusion to his senses. She was dif- 
ferent — unexpectedly, bewilderingly different. She 
had lost that delicate serenity of manner, that 
almost protective affection which he had grown to 
lean upon and expect. She entered dressed for the 
street, smoking a cigarette, which was in itself 
unusual, with dark rings under her eyes, which 
seemed to be looking all around the room on some 
pretext or other, but never at him. 

* Am I late? ” she asked, a little breathlessly. “I 
am so sorry. ‘Tell me, have you anything particular 
to do?” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 189 


* Nothing,” he answered. 

“IT want to go out of the city — into the country, 
at once,” she told him feverishly. ‘The car is 
waiting. I ordered it for a quarter to eleven. Let 
us start.” 

**Of course, if you wish it,” he assented. 

He opened the door but before she passed through 
he leaned towards her. She shook her head. His 
heart sank. What could there be more ominous 
than this! 

“I am not well,” she muttered. “ Don’t take any 
notice of anything I say or do for a little time. I 
am like this sometimes — temperamental, I suppose. 
All great actresses are temperamental. I suppose 
I am a great aetress. Do you think I am, Philip? ” 

He was following her down-stairs now. He found 
it hard, however, to imitate the flippancy of her tone. 

“The critics insist upon it,” he observed drily. 
“Evidently your audience last night shared their 
opinion.” 

She nodded. 

“T love them to applaud like that, and yet — 
audiences don’t really know, do they? Perhaps —” 

She relapsed into silence, and they took their 
places in the car. She settled herself down with 
a little sigh of content and drew the rug over her. 

“ As far as you can go, John,” she told the man, 
“but you must get back at six o’clock. The coun- 
try, mind — not the shore.” 

They started off. 

“So you were there last night? ” she murmured, 
leaning back amongst the cushions with an air of 
relief, 


190 THE CINEMA MURDER 


“I was there for a few moments. I wrote my 
note to you in the box office.” 

She shook the memory away. 

‘“¢ And afterwards? ” 

** I went to one of the clubs down-town.” 

** What did you do there? ” she enquired. ‘* Gos- 
sip?” 

“‘ Some of the men were very kind to me,” he said. 
“T had supper with Noel Bridges, amongst others.” 

“ Well? ” she asked, almost defiantly. 

“IT don’t understand.” 

She looked intently at him for a moment. 

“TI forgot,” she went on. ‘ You are very chiv- 
alrous, aren’t you? You wouldn’t ask questions. 
. . . See, I am going to close my eyes. It is too 
horrible here, and all through Brooklyn. When we 
are in the lanes I can talk. This is just one of 
those days I wish that we were in England. All our 
country is either suburban or too wild and restless. 
Can you be content with silence for a little time? ” 

** Of course,” he assured her. “ Besides, you for- 
get that I am in a strange country. Everything is 
worth watching.” 

They passed over Brooklyn Bridge, and for an 
hour or more they made slow progress through the 
wide-flung environs of the city. At last, however, 
the endless succession of factories and small tene- 
ment dwellings lay behind them. ‘They passed 
houses with real gardens, through stretches of wood 
whose leaves were opening, whose branches were filled 
with the sweet-smelling sap of springtime. Elizabeth 
seemed to wake almost automatically from a kind 


of stupor. She pushed back her veil, and Philip, 


THE CINEMA MURDER ror 


stealing eager glances towards her, was almost 
startled by some indefinable change. Her face 
seemed more delicate, almost the face of an invalid, 
and she lay back there with half-closed eyes. The 
strength of her mouth seemed to have dissolved, and 
its sweetness had become almost pathetic. There 
were signs of a great weariness about her. The 
fingers which reached out for the little speaking-tube 
seemed to have become thinner. 

“Take the turn to the left, John,” she instructed, 
** the one to Bay Shore. Go slowly by the lake and 
stop where I tell you.” 

They left the main road and travelled for some 
distance along a lane which, with its bramble-grown 
fences and meadows beyond, was curiously reminis- 
cent of England. They passed a country house, 
built of the wood which was still a little unfamiliar 
to Philip, but wonderfully homelike with its cluster 
of outbuildings, its trim lawns, and the turret clock 
over the stable entrance. Then, through the leaves 
of an avenue of elms, they caught occasional glimpses 
of the blue waters of the lake, which they presently 
skirted. Elizabeth’s eyes travelled over its placid 
surface idly, yet with a sense of passive satisfaction. 
In a few minutes they passed into the heart of a 
little wood, and she leaned forward. 

‘** Stop here, close to the side of the road, John. 
Stop your engine, please, and go and sit by the lake.” 

The man obeyed at once with the unquestioning 
readiness of one used to his mistress’ whims. For 
several minutes she remained silent. She had the 
air of one drinking in with almost passionate eager- 
ness the sedative effect of the stillness, the soft spring 


192 THE CINEMA MURDER 


air, the musical country sounds, the ripple of the 
breeze in the trees, the humming of insects, the soft 
splash of the lake against the stony shore. Philip 
himself was awakened into a peculiar sense of pleas- 
ure by this, almost his first glimpse of the country 
since his arrival in New York. A host of half for- 
gotten sensations warmed his heart. He felt sud- 
denly intensely sympathetic, perhaps more genuinely 
tender than he had ever felt before towards the 
woman by his side, whose hour of suffering it was. 
His hand slipped under the rug and held her fingers, 
which clutched his in instantaneous response. Her 
lips seemed unlocked by his slight action. 

‘I came here alone two years ago,” she told hm, 
“and since then often, sometimes to study a diffi- 
cult part, sometimes only to think. One moment.” 

She released her fingers from his, drew out the 
‘hatpins from her hat, unwound the veil and threw 
them both on to the opposite seat. Then she laid 
her hands upon her forehead as though to cool it. 
The little breeze from the lake rippled through her 
hair, bringing them every now and then faint whiffs 
of perfume from the bordering gardens. 

“There! ” she exclaimed, with a little murmur of 
content. “That’s a man’s action, isn’t it? Now 
I thmk I am getting brave. I have something to 
say to you, Philip.” 

He felt her fingers seeking his again and held them 
tightly. It was curious how in that moment of 
crisis his thoughts seemed to wander away. He was 
watching the little flecks of gold in her hair, wonder- 
ing if he had ever properly appreciated the beautiful 
curve of her neck. Even her voice seemed somehow 


THE CINEMA MURDER 193 


attuned to the melody of their surroundings, the con- 
fused song of the birds, the sighing of the lake, the 
passing of the west wind through the trees and shrubs 
around. 

** Philip,” she began, clinging closely to him, “I 
have brought you here to tell you a story which 
perhaps you will think, when you have heard it, 
might better have been told in my dressing-room. 
Well, I couldn’t. Besides, I wanted to get away. 
It is about Sylvanus Power.” 

He sat a little more upright. His nerves were 
tingling now with eagerness. 

66 Yes? 33° 

“IT met him,” she continued, “eight years ago 
out West, when I was in a travelling show. I 
accepted his attentions at first carelessly enough. I 
did not realise the sort of man he was. He was a 
great personage even in those days, and I suppose 
my head was a little turned. Then he began to fol- 
low us everywhere. There was a scandal, of course. 
In the end I left the company and came to New 
York. He went to China, where he has always had 

large interests. When I heard that he had sailed — 
_ I remember reading it in the paper —I could have 
sobbed with joy.” 3 

Philip moved a little uneasily in his place. Some 
instinct told. him, however, how greatly she desired 
his silence — that she wanted to tell her story her 
own way. 

“Then followed three miserable years, during 
which I saw little of him. I knew that I had talent, 
I was always sure of making a living, but I got no 
further. It didn’t seem possible to get any further. 


194 THE CINEMA MURDER 


Nothing that I could do or say seemed able to pro- 
cure for me an engagement in New York. Think of 
me for a moment now, Philip, as a woman abso- 
lutely and entirely devoted to her work. I loved it. 
It absorbed all my thoughts. It was just the one 
thing in life I cared anything about. I simply 
ached to get at New York, and I couldn’t. All the 
time I had to play on tour, and you won’t quite 
understand this, dear, but there is nothing so wearing 
in life as for any one with my cravings for recog- 
nition there to be always playing on the road.” 

She paused for a few minutes. ‘There was a loud 
twittering of birds. A rabbit who had stolen care- 
fully through the undergrowth scurried away. A 
car had come through the wood and swept past them, 
bringing with it some vague sense of disturbance. 
_ It was some little time before she settled down again 
to her story. 

“‘ At the end of those three years,” she went on, 
** Sylvanus Power had become richer, stronger, more » 
masterful than ever. I was beginning to lose heart. 
He was clever. He studied my every weakness. He 
knew quite well that with me there was only one’ 
way, and he laid his schemes with regard to me just 
in the same fashion as he schemed to be a conqueror 
of men, to build up those millions. We were playing 
near New York and one day he asked me to motor 
in there and lunch with him. I accepted. It was 
in the springtime, almost on such a day as this. We 
motored up in one of his wonderful cars. We lunched 
-—— I remember how shabby I felt — at the best res- 
taurant in New York, where I was waited upon 
like a queen. Somehow or other, the man had always 


THE CINEMA MURDER 195 


the knack of making himself felt wherever he went. 
He strode the very streets of New York like one of 
its masters and the people seemed to recognise it. 
Afterwards he took me into Broadway, and he ordered 
the car to stop outside the theatre where I am now 
playing. I looked at it, and I remember I gave 
a little cry of interest. 

**¢ This is the new theatre that every one is talking 
about, isn’t it?’ I asked him eagerly. 

“It is,’ he answered. ‘Would you like to see 
inside? ’ 

** Of course, J was half crazy with curiosity. The 
doors flew open before him, and he took me every- 
where. You know yourself what a magnificent place 
it is — that marvellous stage, the auditorium all in 
dark green satin, the seats like armchairs, the dress- 
ing rooms like boudoirs — the wonderful spacious- 
ness of it! It took my breath away. I had never 
imagined such splendour. When we had finished 
looking over the whole building, I clutched his arm. 

“*¢T can’t believe that it isn’t some sort of fairy 
palace!’ I exclaimed. ‘ And to think that no one 
knows who owns the place or when it is going to 
be opened!” 

“¢ Tl tell you all about that,’ he answered. ‘I 
built it, I own it, and it will be opened just when 
you accept my offer and. play in it.’ 

“Tt all seemed too amazing. Fora time I couldn’t 
speak coherently. Then I remember thinking that 
whatever happened, whatever price I had to pay, 
I must stand upon the stage of that theatre and win. 
My lips were quite dry. His great voice seemed to 
have faded into a whisper. 


196 THE CINEMA MURDER 


“* Your offer?’ I repeated. 

“<* Yourself,’ he answered grufily.” ... 

There was a silence which seemed to Philip inter- 
minable. All the magic of the place had passed 
away, its music seemed no longer to be singing happi- 
ness into his heart. ‘Then at last he realised that 
she was waiting for him to speak. 

““He wanted — to marry you? ” he faltered. 

** He had a wife already.” 

Splash! John was throwing stones into the lake, 
a pastime of which he was getting a little tired. A 
huge thrush was thinking about commencing to build 
his nest, and in the meantime sat upon a fallen log 
across the way and sang about it. A little tree- 
climbing bird ran round and round the trunk of the 
nearest elm, staring at them, every time he appeared, 
with his tiny black eyes. A squirrel, almost over- 
head, who had long since come to the conclusion that 
they were harmless, decided now that they had the 
queerest manners of any two young people he had 
ever watched from his leafy throne, and finally aban- 
doned his position. Elizabeth had been staring down 
the road ever since the last words had passed her 
lips. She turned at last and looked at her com- 
panion. He was once more the refugee, the half- 
starved man flying from horrors greater even than 
he had known. She began to tremble. 

“ Philip! ” she cried. ‘Say anything, but speak 
to me!” 

Like a flash he seemed to pass from his own, 
almost the hermit’s way of looking out upon life 
from the old-fashioned standpoint of his inherent 
puritanism, into a closer sympathy with those others, 


THE CINEMA MURDER 197 


the men and women of the world into which he had 
so lately entered, the men and women who had wel- 
comed him so warm-heartedly, human beings all of 
them, who lived and loved with glad hearts and much 
kindliness. ‘The contrast was absurd, the story itself 
suddenly so reasonable. No other woman on tour 
would have kept Sylvanus Power waiting for three 
years. Only Elizabeth could have done that. It 
was such a human little problem. People didn’t 
live in the clouds. He wasn’t fit for the clouds him- 
self. Nevertheless, when he tried to speak his throat 
was hard and dry, and at the second attempt he 
began instead to laugh. She gripped his arm. 

“ Philip!’ she exclaimed. ‘* Be reasonable! Say 
what you like, but look and behave like a human 
being. Don’t make that noise! ”’ she almost shrieked. 

He stopped at once. 

* Forgive me,” he begged humbly. ‘I can’t help 
it. I seem to be playing hide and seek with myself. 
You haven’t finished the story yet —if there is any- 
thing more to tell me.” 

She drew herself up. She spoke absolutely with- 
out faltering. . 

“JT accepted Sylvanus Power’s terms,” she went 
on. “He placed large sums of money in Fink’s 
hands to run the theatre. There was a wonderful 
opening. You were not interested then or you might 
have heard of it. I produced a new play of Clyde 
Fitch’s. It was a great triumph. The house was 
packed. Sylvanus Power sat in his box. It was 
to be his night. Through it all I fought like a 
woman inanightmare. I didn’t know what it meant. 
I knew hundreds of women who had done in a small 


198 THE CINEMA MURDER 


way what I was prepared to do magnificently. In 
all my acquaintance I think that I scarcely knew 
one who would have refused to do what I was doing. 
And all the time I was in a state of fierce revolt. I 
had moments when my life’s ambitions, when New 
York itself, the Mecca of my dreams, and that 
marvellous theatre, with its marble and silk, seemed 
suddenly to dwindle to a miserable, contemptible little 
doll’s house. And then again I played, and I felt 
my soul as I played, and the old dreams swept over 
me, and I said that it wasn’t anything to do with 
personal vanity that made me crave for the big gifts 
of success; that it was my art, and that I must 
find myself in my art or die.” 

The blood was flowing in his veins again. She was 
coming back to him. -He was ashamed — he with his 
.giant load of sin! His voice trembled with tender- 
ness. 

*“Go on,” he begged. 

“J think that the reason I played that night as 
though I were inspired was because of the great 
passionate craving at my heart for forgetfulness, to 
shut out the memory of that man who sat almost 
gloomily alone in his box, waiting. And then, after 
it was all over, the wonder and the glory of it, he 
appeared suddenly in my dressing-room, elbowing his 
way through excited journalists, kicking bouquets of 
flowers from his path. We stood for a moment face 
to face. He came nearer. I shrank away. I was 
terrified! He looked at me in cold surprise. . 

*¢¢ Three minutes,’ he exclaimed, ‘ to say good-by. 
I’m off to China. Stick at it. You’ve done well for 
a start, but remember a New York audience wants 


THE CINEMA MURDER 199 


holding. Choose your plays carefully. Trust Fink.’ 

“* You’re going away?’ I almost shrieked. 

He glanced at his watch, leaned over, and kissed 
me on the forehead. 

“ll barely make that boat,’ he muttered, and 
rushed out.” ... 

Philip was breathless. The strange, untold pas- 
sion of the whole thing was coming to him in waves 
of wonderful suggestion. 

“Finish!” he cried impatiently. ‘* Finish! ” 

“That is the end,” she said. “I played for two 
years and a half, with scarcely a pause. Then I 
came to Europe for a rest and travelled back with 
you on the Elletanta. Last night I saw Sylvanus 
Power again for the first time. Don’t speak. My 
story is in two halves. That is the first. The sec- 
ond is just one question. ‘That will come before 
we reach home. . . . John!” she called. 

The man approached promptly —he was quite 
weary of throwing stones. 

“'Take us somewhere to lunch,” his mistress di- 
rected, “ and get back to New York at six o’clock.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


It was not until they were crossing Brooklyn 
Bridge, on their way into the city, that she asked 
him that question. They crawled along, one of an 
interminable, tangled line of vehicles of all sorts and 
conditions, the trains rattling overhead, and endless 
streams of earnest people passing along the footway. 
Below them, the evening sunlight flashed upon the 
murky waters, glittered from the windows of the 
tall buildings, and shone a little mercilessly upon the 
unlovely purlieus of the great human hive. The wind 
-had turned cool, and Elizabeth, with a little shiver, 
had drawn her furs around her neck. All through 
the day, during the luncheon in an unpretentious lit- 
tle inn, and the leisurely homeward drive, she had 
been once more entirely herself, pleasant and sympa- ~ 
thetic, ignoring absolutely the intangible barrier 
which had grown up between them, soon to be thrown 
down for ever or to remain for all time. | 

“We left our heroine,” she said, “ at an interest- 
ing crisis in her career. I am waiting to hear from 
you — what would you have done in her place? ” 

He answered her at once, and he spoke from the 
lesser heights. He was fiercely jealous. 

“It is not a reasonable question,” he declared. 
“Tam not a woman. I am just a man who has led 
an unusually narrow and cramped life until these 
last few months.” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 201 


“That is scarcely fair,” she objected. ‘“ You 
profess to have loved — to love still, I hope. That 
in itself makes a man of any one. Then you, too, 
have sinned. You, too, are one of those who have 
yielded to passion of a sort. Therefore, your judg- 
ment ought to be the better worth having.” 

He winced as though he had been struck, and 
looked at her with eyes momentarily wild. He felt 
that the deliberate cruelty of her words was of 
intent, an instinct of her brain, defying for the 
moment her heart. 

“JT don’t know,” he faltered. “I won’t answer 
your question. Ican’t. You see, the love you speak 
of is my love for you. You ask me fo ignore that 
—I, who am clinging on to life by one rope.” 

“You are like all men,” she sighed. “We do 
not blame you for it — perhaps we love you the 
more — but when a great crisis comes you think 
only of yourselves. You disappoint me a little, 
Philip. I fancied that you might have thought a 
little of me, something of Sylvanus Power.” 

‘I haven’t your sympathy for other people,” he 
_ declared hoarsely. 

** No,” she assented, “ sympathy is the one thing 
aman lacks. It isn’t your fault, Philip. You are 
to be pitied for it. And, after all, it is a woman’s 
gift, isn’t it?” | 

There followed then a silence which seemed inter- 
minable. It was not until they were nearing the 
theatre that he suddenly spoke with a passion which 
startled her. 

* Tell me,” he insisted, “ last night? I can’t help 
asking. I was in hell!” 


202 THE CINEMA MURDER 


He told himself afterwards that there couldn’t 
be any possible way of reconciling cruelty so cold- 
blooded with all that he knew of Elizabeth. She 
behaved as though his question had fallen upon deaf 
ears. The car had stopped before the entrance to 
the theatre. She stepped out even before he could 
assist her, hurried across the pavement and looked 
back at him for one moment only before she plunged 
into the dark passage. She nodded, and there was 
an utterly meaningless smile upon her lips. 

*Good-by!” she said. “Do you mind telling 
John he needn’t wait for me? ” | 

Then she disappeared. He stood motionless upon 
the pavement, a little dazed. ‘Two or three people 
jostled against him. A policeman glanced at him 
curiously. A lady with very yellow hair winked in 
-his face. Philip pulled himself together and simul- 
taneously felt a touch upon his elbow. He glanced 
into the _ ce of the girl who had accosted him, and 
for a mom-nt he scarcely recognised her. 

** Wish you’d remember you’re in New York and 
not one of your own sleepy old towns,” Miss Grimes 
remarked brusquely. ‘‘ You’ll have a policeman say 
you’re drunk, in a minute, if you stand there letting 
people shove you around.” 

He fell into step by her side, and they walked 
slowly along. Martha was plainly dressed, but she 
was wearing new clothes, new shoes, and a new hat. 

“Don’t stare at me as though you never saw 
me out of a garret before,” she went on, a little 
sharply. ‘ Your friend Miss Dalstan is a lady who 
understands things. When I arrived at the theatre 
this morning I found that it was to be a permanent 


THE CINEMA MURDER 203 


job all right, and there was a little advance for 
me waiting in an envelope. That fat old Mr. Fink 
began to cough and look at my clothes, so I got 
one in first. ‘This is for me to make myself look 
smart enough for your theatre, I suppose?’ I said. 
“Give me an hour off, and I'll do it.’ So he grinned, 
and here I am. Done a good day’s work, too, 
copying the parts of your play for a road company, 
and answering letters. What’s wrong with you? ” 

The very sound of her voice was a tonic. He 
almost smiled as he answered her. 

* Just a sort of hankering for the moon and a 
_sudden fear lest I mightn’t get it.” 

*You’re spoilt, that’s what’s the matter with 
you,” she declared brusquely. | 

“It never occurred to me,” he said gloomily, 
“that life had been over-kind.” 

“Oh, cut it out!” she answered. ‘* Here you are, 
not only set on your feet but absolutely held up 
there; all the papers full of Merton Ware’s brilliant 
play, and Merton Ware, the new dramatist, with his 
social gifts— such an acquisition to New York 
Society! Why, it isn’t so very long ago, after all, 
that you hadn’t a soul in New York to speak to. 
I saw something in your face that night. I thought 
you were hungry. So you were, only it wasn’t for 
food. It cheered you up even to talk with me. 
And look at you to-day! Clubs and parties and 
fine friends, and there you were, half dazed in Broad- 
way! Be careful, man. You don’t know what it 
is to be down and out. You haven’t been as near 
it as I have, anyway, or you’d lift your head up 
and be thankful.” 


204 THE CINEMA MURDER 


‘“* Martha,” he began earnestly — 

“ Miss Grimes!” she interrupted firmly. ‘“* Don’t 
let there be any mistake about that. I hate 
familiarity.” 

“Miss Grimes, then,” he went on. ‘“ You talk 
about my friends. Quite right. I should think I 
have been introduced to nearly a thousand people 
since the night my play was produced. I have dined 
at a score of houses and many scores of restaurants. 
The people are pleasant enough, too, but all the 
time it’s Merton Ware the dramatist they are patting, 
on the back. ‘They don’t know anything about Mer- 
ton Ware the man. Perhaps there are some of 
them would be glad to, but you see it’s too soon, 
and they seem to live too quickly here to make 
friends. I am almost as lonely as I was, so far 
_as regards ordinary companionship. Last night I 
felt the first little glow of real friendliness — just the 
men down at the club.” 

* You’ve put all your eggs into one basket, that’s 
what you’ve done,” she declared. 

* That’s true enough,” he groaned. 

** And like all men — selfish brutes!” she pro- 
ceeded deliberately —“ you expect everything. 
Fancy expecting everything from a woman like Miss 
Dalstan! Why, you aren’t worthy of it, you know.” 

* Perhaps not,” he admitted, “‘ but you see, Miss 
Grimes, there is something in life which seems to 
have passed you by up till now.” 

“ Has it indeed!” she objected. ‘* You think I’ve 
never had a young man, eh? Perhaps you’re right. 
Haven’t found much time for that sort of rubbish. 
Anyway, this is where I hop on a trolley car.” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 205 


“ Wait a moment,” he begged. ‘Don’t leave me 
yet. You’ve nothing to do, have you? ” 

* Nothing particular,” she confessed, “ except go 
home and cook my dinner.” 

“Look here,” he went on eagerly, “I feel like 
work. I’ve got the second act of my new play in my 
mind. Come round with me and let me try dictating 
it. Tl give you something to eat in my rooms. 
It’s for the theatre, mind. I never tried dictating. 
I believe I could do it to you.” 

“In your rooms,” she repeated, a little doubtfully. 

“ They won’t talk scandal about us, Miss Grimes,” 
he assured her. “To tell you the truth, I want 
_ to be near the telephone.” 

**In case she rings you up, eh? ” 

“That’s so. I said something I ought not to 
have done. I ought to have waited for her, but it 
was something that had been tearing at.me ever 
since last night, and I couldn’t bear it.” 

** Some blunderers, you men,” Miss Grimes sighed. 
* Well, I’m with you.” 

He led her almost apologetically to the lift of 
the handsome building in which his new rooms were 
situated. ‘They were very pleasant bachelor rooms, 
with black oak walls and green hangings, prints 
upon the wall, a serviceable writing-table, and a deep 
green carpet. She looked around her and at the 
servant who had come forward at their entrance, with 
a little sniff. 

“Shall you be changing to-night, sir?” he 
asked. 

“Not to-night,” Philip answered quickly. “ Tell 
the waiter to send up a simple dinner for two—I 


206 THE CINEMA MURDER 


can’t bother to order. And two cocktails,” he 
added, as an afterthought. 

Martha stared after the disappearing manservant 
disparagingly. 

** Some style,” she muttered. ‘‘ A manservant, eh? 
Don’t know as I ever saw one before off the stage.” 

** Don’t be silly,” he remonstrated. ‘ He has four 
other flats to look after besides mine. It’s the way 
one lives, nowadays, cheaper than ordinary hotels 
orrooms. ‘Take off your coat.” 

She obeyed him, depositing it carefully in a safe 
place. ‘Then she strolled around the room, finding 
pictures little to her taste, and finally threw herself 
into an easy-chair. 

*“* Are we going to work before we eat? ” she asked. 

*“ No, afterwards,” he told her. ‘“ Have a ciga- 
rette? ” | 

She held it between her fingers but declined a 
match. 

“ T’ll wait for the cocktails,” she decided. ‘ Now 
listen here, Mr. Ware, there’s a word or two I’d 
like to say to you.” 

““ Go ahead,” he invited listlessly. 

“You men,” she continued, looking him squarely 
in the face, “think a lot too much of yourselves. 
You think so much of yourselves that as often as 
not you’ve no time to think of other folk. A month 
or so ago who were you? You were hiding in a 
cheap tenement house, scared out of your wits, 
dressed pretty near as shabbily as I was, with a 
detective on your track, and with no idea of what 
you were going to do for a living. And now look 
at you. Who’s done it all?” 3 


THE CINEMA MURDER 207 


‘** Of course, my play being successful,” he began — 

She broke in at once. 

“You and your play! Who took your play? 
Who produced it at the New York Theatre and 
acted in it so that people couldn’t listen without a 
sob in their throats and a tingling all over? Yours 
isn’t the only play in the world! I bet Miss Dalstan 
has a box full of them. She probably chose yours 
because she knew that you were feeling pretty miser- 
able, because she’d got sorry for you coming over 
on the steamer, because she has a great big heart, 
and is always trying to do something for others. 
She’s made a man of you. Oh! I know a bit about 
plays. I know that with the royalties you’re draw- 
ing you can well afford rooms like these and any- 
thing else you want. But that isn’t all she’s done. 
She’s introduced you to her friends, she’s taken 
more notice of you than any man around. She 
takes you out automobile driving, she lets you spend 
all your spare time in her rooms. She don’t mind 
what people say. You dine with her and take her 
home after the play. You have more of her than 
any other person alive. Say, what I want to ask 
is —do you think you’re properly grateful? ” 

*“ I couldn’t ever repay Miss Dalstan,” he acknowl- 
edged, a little sadly, “ but —” 

** Look here, no ‘ buts’!” she interrupted. ‘“ You 
think I don’t know anything. Perhaps I don’t, and 
perhaps I do. I was standing in the door of the 
office when you two came in from your automobile 
drive this afternoon. I saw her come away without 
wishing you good-by, then I saw her turn and nod, 
looking just as usual, and I saw her face after- 


¢ 


208 THE CINEMA MURDER 


wards. If I had had you, my man, as close to 
me then as you are now, I’d have boxed your ears.” 

He moved uneasily in his chair. ‘There was no 
doubt about the girl’s earnestness. She was leaning 
a little forward, and her brown eyes were filled with 
a hard, accusing light. There was a little spot of 
colour, even, in her sallow cheeks. She was unmis- 
takably angry. 

“Vd like to know who you are and what you 
think yourself to make a woman look like hay ss 
she wound up. | 

The waiter entered with the cocktails and began 
to lay the cloth for dinner. Philip paced the room 
uneasily until he had gone. 

“Look here, my little friend,” he said, when at 
last the door was closed, “ there’s a great deal of 
sound common sense in what you say. I may be 
an egoist —I dare say 1am. I’ve been through the 
proper training for it, and I’ve started life again on 
a pretty one-sided basis, perhaps. But — have you 
ever been jealous? ” 

“Me jealous!” she repeated scornfully. ‘“ What 
of, I wonder? ” 

There was a suspicious glitter in her eyes, a queer 
little tremble in her tone. His question, however, 
was merely perfunctory. She represented little more 
to him, at that moment, than the incarnation of 
his own conscience. 

“Very likely you haven’t,” he went on. “ You 
are too independent ever to care much for any one. 
Well, I’ve been half mad with jealousy since last 
night. That is the truth of it. There’s another 
man wants her, the man who built the theatre for 


THE CINEMA MURDER 209 


her. She told me about him yesterday while we 
were out together.” 

“Don’t you want her to be happy?” the girl 
asked bluntly. 

* Of course I do.” 

“Then leave her alone to choose. Don’t go about 
looking as though you had a knife in your heart, 
if you find her turn for a moment to some one 
else. You don’t want her to choose you, do you, 
just because you are a weakling, because her great 
kind heart can’t bear the thought of making you 
miserable? Stand on your feet like a mar and 
take your luck. ...Can I take off my hat? 
I can’t eat in this.” 

The waiter had entered with the dinner. Merton 
opened the door of his room and paced up and 
down, for a few moments, thoughtfully. When she 
reappeared she took the seat opposite Philip and 
suddenly smiled at him, an exceedingly rare but most 
becoming performance. Her mouth seemed at once 
to soften, and even her eyes laughed at him. 

** Here you ask me to dine,” she said, ‘ because 
you are lonely, and I do nothing but scold you! 
Never mind. I was typewriting something of yours 
this morning — I’ve forgotten the words, but it was 
something about the discipline of affection. You 
can take my scolding that way. If I didn’t adore 
Miss Dalstan, and if you hadn’t been kind to me, 
I should never take the trouble to make myself 
disagreeable.”’ 

He smiled back at her, readily falling in with 
her altered mood. She seemed to have talked the 
ill-humour cut of her blood, and during the service 


210 THE CINEMA MURDER 


of the meal she told him of the comfort of her 
work, the charm of the other girl in the room, with 
whom she was already discussing a plan to share an 
apartment. When she came to speak, however re- 
motely, of Miss Dalstan, her voice seemed instinc- 
tively to soften. Philip found himself wondering 
what had passed between the two women in those 
few moments when Elizabeth had left him and gone 
back to Martha’s room. By some strange miracle, 
the strong, sweet, understanding woman had simply 
taken possession of the friendless child. The thought 
of her sat now in Martha’s heart, an obsession, 
almost a worship. Perhaps that was why the sense 
of companionship between the two, notwithstanding 
certain obvious disparities, seemed to grow stronger 
every moment. 

They drank their coffee and smoked cigarettes 
afterwards in lazy fashion. Suddenly Martha sprang 
up. 

‘Say, I came here to work!” she exclaimed. 

** And I brought you under false pretences,” he 
confessed. ‘“* My brain’s not working. I can’t dic- 
tate. We'll try another evening. You don’t mind? ” 

“Of course not,” she answered, glancing at the 
clock. ‘“ T’ll be going.” 

“Wait a little time longer,” he begged. 

She resumed her seat. There was only one heavily 
shaded lamp burning on the table, and through the 
little cloud of tobacco smoke she watched him. His 
eyes were sometimes upon the timepiece, sometimes 
on the telephone. He seemed always, although his 
attitude was one of repose, to be listening, waiting. 
It was half-past nine—the middle of the second 


THE CINEMA MURDER 211 


act. They knew quite well that for a quarter of 
an hour Elizabeth would be in her dressing room. 
She could ring up if she wished. The seconds ticked 
monotonously away. Martha found herself, too, 
sharing that curiously intense desire to hear the 
ring of the telephone. Nothing happened. A quar- 
ter to ten came and passed. She rose to her feet. 

“IT am going home right now,” she announced. 

He reached for his hat. 

“Till come with you,” he suggested, a little half- 
heartedly. 

“You'll do nothing of the sort,” she objected, 
“or if you do, Vil never come inside your rooms 
again. Understand that. I don’t want any of these 
Society tricks. See me home, indeed! Id have you 
know that I’m better able to take care of myself 
in the streets of New York than you are. So thank 
you for your dinner, and just you sit down and 
listen for that telephone. It will ring right pres- 
ently, and if it doesn’t, go to bed and say to your- 
self that whatever she decides is best. She knows 
which way her happiness lies. You don’t. And it’s 
she who counts much more than you. Leave off 
thinking of yourself quite so much and shake hands 
with me, please, Mr. Ware.” 

He gripped her hand, opened the door, and watched 
her sail down towards the lift, whistling to herself, 
her hands in her coat pockets. Then he turned back 
into the room and locked himself in. 


CHAPTER IX 


The slow fever of inaction, fretting in Philip’s. 
veins, culminated soon after Martha’s departure in a 
passionate desire for a movement of some sort. The 
very silence of the room maddened him, the unre- 
sponsive-looking telephone, the fire which had burned 
itself out, the dropping even of the wind, which at 
intervals during the evening had flung a rainstorm 
against the windowpane. At midnight he could bear 
it no longer and sallied out into the streets. Again 
that curious desire for companionship was upon 
- him, a strange heritage for one who throughout the 
earlier stages of his life had been content with and 
had even sought a grim and unending solitude. He 
boarded a surface car for the sake of sitting wedged 
in amongst a little crowd of people, and he entered 
his club, noting the number of hats and coats in 
the cloakroom with a queer sense of satisfaction. 
He no sooner made his appearance in the main room 
than he was greeted vociferously from half a dozen 
quarters. He accepted every hospitality that was 
offered to him, drinking cheerfully with new as well 
as old acquaintances. Presently Noel Bridges came 
up and gripped his shoulder. 

“ Come and have a grill with us, Ware,” he begged. 
“'There’s Seymour and Richmond here, from the 
Savage Club, and a whole crowd of us. Hullo, 
Freddy!” he went on, greeting the man with whom 


THE CINEMA MURDER 213 


Philip had been talking. ‘“‘ Why don’t you come and 
join us, too? We’ll have a rubber of bridge after- 
wards.” 

“ That’s great,” the other declared. ‘* Come on, 
Ware. We'll rag old Honeybrook into telling us 
some of his stories.” 

The little party gathered together at the end of 
the common table. Philip had already drunk much 
more than he was accustomed to, but the only result 
appeared to be some slight slackening of the tension 
in which he had been living. His eyes flashed, and 
his tongue became more nimble. He insisted upon 
ordering wine. He had had no opportunity yet of 
repaying many courtesies. They drank his health, 
forced him into the place of honour by the side of 
Honeybrook, veteran of the club, and ate their meal 
to the accompaniment of ceaseless bursts of laughter, 
chaff, the popping of corks, mock speeches, badinage 
of every sort. Philip felt, somehow, that his brain 
had never been clearer. He not only held his own, 
but he earned a reputation for a sense of humour 
previously denied to him. And in the midst of it 
all the door opened and closed, and a huge man, 
dressed in plain dinner clothes, still wearing his thea- 
tre hat, with a coat upon his arm and a stick in his 
hand, passed through the door and stood for a 
moment gazing around him. 

** Say, that’s Sylvanus Power!” one of the young 
men at the table exclaimed. ‘“‘ Looks a trifle grim, 
doesn’t he? ” | 

“It’s the old man, right enough,” Noel Bridges 
murmured. ‘ Wonder what he wants down here? It 
isn’t in his beat? ” 


214 THE CINEMA MURDER 


Honeybrook, the great New York raconteur, 
father of the club, touched Philip upon the shoulder. 

“ Hey, presto!” he whispered. ‘‘ We who think 
so much of ourselves have become pigmies upon 
the face of the earth. There towers the repre- 
sentative of modern omnipotence. ‘Those are the 
hands — grim, strong-looking hands, aren’t they? 
—that grip the levers of modern American life. - 
Rodin ought to do a statue of him as he stands 
there — art and letters growing smaller as he grows 
larger. We exist for him. He builds theatres for 
our plays, museums for our pictures, libraries for 
our books.” 

** Seems to me he is looking for one of us,” Noel 
Bridges remarked. 

‘** Some pose, isn’t it!” a younger member of the 
‘ party exclaimed reverently, as he lifted his tankard. 

All these things were a matter of seconds, during 
which Sylvanus Power did indeed stand without mov- 
ing, looking closely about the room. ‘Then his eye 
at last lit upon the end of the table where Philip 
and his friends were seated. He approached them 
without a word. Noel Bridges ventured upon a 
greeting. 

“ Coming to join us, Mr. Power? ” he asked. 

Sylvanus Power, if he heard the question, ignored 
it. His eyes had rested upon Philip. He stood 
over the table now, looming before them, massive, 
in his way awe-inspiring. 

“* Ware,” he said, “ I’ve been looking for you.” 

Instinctively Philip rose to his feet. Tall though 
he was, he had to look up at the other man, and 
his slender body seemed in comparison like a willow 


THE CINEMA MURDER 215 


wand. Nevertheless, the light in his eyes was illumi- 
native. ‘There was no shrinking away. He stood 
there with the air of one prepared to welcome, to 
incite and provoke storm whatever might be brewing. 

“I have been to your rooms,” Sylvanus Power 
went on. ‘“ They knew nothing about you there.” 

“They wouldn’t,” Philip replied. “I go where 
I choose and when I choose. What do you want 
with me? ” 

Conversation in the room was almost suspended. 
Those in the immediate locality, well acquainted with 
the gossip of the city, held the key to the situation. 
Every one for a moment, however, was spellbound. 
They felt the coming storm, but they were powerless. 

*¥ sought you out, Ware,” Sylvanus Power con- 
tinued, his harsh voice ringing through the room, 
“to tell you what probably every other man here 
knows except you. If you know it you’re a fool, 
and I’m here to tell you so.” 

“ Have you been drinking? ” Philip asked calmly. 

** Maybe I have,” Sylvanus Power answered, “ but 
whisky can’t cloud my brain or stop my tongue. 
You’re looking at my little toy here,” he went on, 
twirling in his right hand a heavy malacca cane 
with a leaden top. “I killed a man with that once.” 

“The weapon seems sufficient for the purpose,” 
Philip answered indifferently. 

“Any other man,” Sylvanus Power went on, 
** would have sat in the chair for that. NotI! You 
don’t know as much of me as you need to, Merton 
Ware. I’m no whippersnapper of a pen-slinger, 
earning a few paltry dollars by writing doggerel 
for women and mountebanks to act. Dve hewn my 


216 THE CINEMA MURDER 


way with my right arm and my brain, from the 
streets to the palace. They say that money talks. 
By God! if it does I ought to shout, for ve more 
million dollars than there are men in this room.” — 

“ Nevertheless,” Philip said, growing calmer as 
he recognised the man’s condition, “ you are a very 
insufferable fellow.” 

There had been a little murmur throughout the 
room at the end of Sylvanus Power’s last blatant 
speech, but at Philip’s retort there was a hushed, 
almost an awed silence. Mr. Honeybrook rose to 
his feet. | 

“ Sir,” he said, turning to Power, “to the best 
of my belief you are not a member of this club.” 

“TI am a member of any club in America I choose 
to enter,” the intruder declared. “As for you 
writing and acting popinjays, I could break the lot 
of you if I chose. I came to see you, Ware. Come 
out from your friends and talk to me.” 

Philip pushed back his chair, made his way delib- 
erately round the head of the table, brushing aside 
several arms outstretched to prevent his going. Syl- 
vanus Power stood in an open space between the 
tables, swinging his cane, with its ugly top, in the 
middle of his hand. He watched Philip’s approach 
and lowered his head a little, like a bull about to 
charge. 

“Tf you have anything to say to me,” Philip 
observed coolly, “I am here, but I warn you that 
there is one subject which is never discussed within 
these walls. If you transgress our unwritten rule, 
I shall neither listen to what you have to say nor 
will you be allowed to remain here.” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 217 


“And what is that subject?” Sylvanus Power 
thundered. 

“No woman’s name is mentioned here,” Philip 
told him calmly. 

Several of the men had sprung to their feet. It 
seemed from Power’s attitude as though murder 
might be done. Philip, however, stood his ground 
almost contemptuously, his frame tense and poised, 
his fists clenched. Suddenly the strain passed. The 
man whose face for a moment had been almost black 
with passion, lowered his cane, swayed a little upon 
his feet, and recovered himself. 

** So you know what I’ve come here to talk about, 
young man? ” he demanded. 

** One can surmise,” Philip replied. ‘“ If you think 
it worth while, I will accompany you to my rooms 
or to yours.” 

Philip in those few seconds made a reputation 
for himself which he never lost. The little com- 
pany of men looked at one another in mute acknowl- 
edgment of a courage which not one of them failed 
to appreciate. 

“T’ll take you at your word,” Sylvanus Power 
decided grimly. ‘“ Here, boys,’ he went on, mov- 
ing towards the table where Philip had been seated, 
** give me a drink — some rye whisky. I’m dry.” 

Not a soul stirred. Even Noel Bridges remained 
motionless. Heselton, the junior manager of the 
theatre, met the millionaire’s eye and never flinched. 
Mr. Honeybrook knocked the ash from his cigar and 
accepted the role of spokesman. 

“ Mr. Power,” he said, “‘ we are a hospitable com- 
pany here, and we are at all times glad to entertain 


218 THE CINEMA MURDER 


our friends. At the same time, the privileges of the 
club are retained so far as possible for those who 
conform to a reasonable standard of good manners.” 

There was a sudden thumping of hands upon the 
table until the glasses rattled. Power’s face showed 
not a single sign of anger. He was simply puzzled. 
He had come into touch with something which he - 
could not understand. There was Bridges, earning 
a salary at his theatre, to be thrown out into the 
streets ur made a star of, according to his whim; 
Heselton, a family man, drawing his salary, and a 
good one, too, also from the theatre; men whose faces 
were familiar to him— some of them, he knew, on 
newspapers in which he owned a controlling interest. 
The power of which he had bragged was a real enough 
thing. What had come to these men that they failed 
' to recognise it? — to this slim young boy of an Eng- 
lishman that he dared to defy him? 

* Pretty queer crowd, you boys,” he muttered. 

Philip, who had been waiting by the door, came a 
few steps back again. 

“Mr. Power,” he said, * I don’t know much about 
you, and you don’t seem to know anything at all 
about us. I am only at present a member by cour- 
tesy of this club, but it isn’t often that any one has 
reason to complain of lack of hospitality here. If 
you take my advice, you’ll apologise to these gentle- 
men for your shockingly bad behaviour when you 
came in. ‘Tell them that you weren’t quite yourself, 
and V’ll stand you a drink myself.” 

“That goes,” Honeybrook assented gravely. 
** It’s up to you, sir.” 

Mr. Sylvanus Power felt that he had wandered 


THE CINEMA MURDER 219 


into a cul-de-sac. He had found his way into one 
of those branch avenues leading from the great road 
of his imperial success. He was man enough to 
know when to turn back. 

* Gentlemen,” he said, “I offer you my apologies. 
I came here in a furious temper and a little drunk. 
I retract all that I said. Ill drink to your club, if 
you'll allow me the privilege.” 

Willing hands filled his tumbler, and grateful ones 
forced a glass between Philip’s fingers. None of 
them really wanted Sylvanus Power for an enemy. 

“Here’s looking at you all,” the latter said. 
Tuck!” he muttered, glancing towards Philip. 

They all drank as though it were a rite. Philip 
and Sylvanus Power set their glasses down almost at 
the same moment. Philip turned towards the door. 

““I am at your service now, Mr. Power,” he an- 
nounced. ‘“ Good night, you fellows!” 

There was a new ring of friendliness in the hearty 
response which came from every corner of the room. 

“Good night, Ware!” 

“So long, old fellow! ” 

** Good night, old chap!” 


There was a little delay in the cloakroom while the 
attendant searched for Philip’s hat, which had been 
temporarily misplaced. Honeybrook, who had fol- 
lowed the two men out of the room, fumbling for a 
moment in his locker and, coming over to Philip, 
dropped something into the latter’s overcoat pocket. 

“ Rather like a scene in a melodrama, isn’t it, 
Ware,” he whispered, “ but I know a little about 
Sylvanus Power. It’s only a last resource, mind.” 


CHAPTER X 


Philip fetched his hat, and the two men stepped 
out on to the pavement. A servant in quiet grey 
livery held open the door of an enormous motor car. 
Sylvanus Power beckoned his companion to precede 
him. 

“ Home,” he told the man, “unless,” he added, 
turning to Philip, “ you’d rather go to your rooms? ” 

**T am quite indifferent,” Philip replied. 

They drove off in absolute silence, a silence which 
remained unbroken until they passed through some 
elaborate iron gates and drew up before a mansion 
in Fifth Avenue. 

* You'll wait,” Sylvanus Power ordered, “ and 
take this gentleman home. This way, sir.” 

The doors rolled open before them. Philip caught 
a vista of a wonderful hall, with a domed roof and 
stained glass windows, and a fountain playing from 
some marble statuary at the further end. A per- 
sonage in black took his coat and hat. The door of 
a dining room stood open. A table, covered with a 
profusion of flowers, was laid, and places set for 
two. Mr. Sylvanus Power turned abruptly to a 
footman. 

“You can have that cleared away,” he directed 
harshly. ‘‘ No supper will be required.” 

He swung around and led the way into a room at 
the rear of the hall, a room which, in comparison with 


THE CINEMA MURDER 221 


Philip’s confused impressions of the rest of the place, 
was almost plainly furnished. ‘There was a small 
oak sideboard, upon which was set out whisky and 
soda and cigars; a great desk, covered with papers, 
before which a young man was seated; two telephone 
instruments and a phonograph. The walls were 
lined with books. The room itself was long and nar- 
row. Power turned to the young man. 

* You can go to bed, George,” he ordered. ‘“ Dis- 
connect the telephones.” 

The young man gathered up some papers, locked 
the desk in silence, bowed to his employer, and left 
the room without a word. Power waited until the 
door was closed. ‘Then he stood up with his back 
to the fireplace and pointed to a chair. | 

“You can sit, if you like,” he invited. ‘ Drink 
or smoke if you want to. You’re welcome.” 

‘Thank you,” Philip replied. ‘ I’d rather stand.” 

* You don’t want even to take a chair in my 
house, I suppose,” Mr. Sylvanus Power went on 
mockingly, “ or drink my whisky or smoke my cigars, 
eh? ” 

“ From the little I have seen of you,” Philip con- 
fessed, “my inclinations are certainly against ac- 
cepting any hospitality at your hands.” 

“'That’s a play-writing trick, I suppose,” Syl- 
vanus Power sneered, “ stringing out your sentences 
as pat as butter. It’s not my way. ‘There’s the 
truth always at the back of my head, and the words 
ready to fit it, but they come as they please.” 

** I seem to have noticed that,” Philip observed. 

“What sort of a man are you, anyway?” the 
other demanded, his heavy eyebrows suddenly lower- 


222 THE CINEMA MURDER 


ing, his wonderful, keen eyes riveted upon Philip. 
**Can I buy you, I wonder, or threaten you? ” 

“That rather depends upon what it is you want 
from me? ” 

“J want you to leave this country and never set 
foot in it again. That’s what I want of you. I 
want you to get back to your London slums and 
write your stuff there and have it played in your 
own poky little theatres. I want you out of New 
York, and I want you out quick.” 

“Then I am afraid,” Philip regretted, “ that we 
are wasting time. I haven’t the least intention of 
leaving New York.” 

“Well, we'll go through the rigmarole,” Power 
continued grufily. ‘We've got to understand one 
another. ‘There’s my cheque book in that safe. A 
million dollars if you leave this country — alone — 
within twenty-four hours, and stay away for the rest 
of your life.” 

Philip raised his eyebrows. He was lounging 
slightly against the desk. 

‘*T should have no use for a million dollars, Mr. 
Power,” he said. “If I had, I should not take it 
from you, and further, the conditions you suggest 
are absurd.” 

“ Bribery no good, eh?” Mr. Power observed. 
“ What about threats? There was a man once who 
wrote a letter to a certain woman, which I found. I 
killed him a few days afterwards. ‘There was a sort 
of a scuffle, but it was murder, right enough. I am 
nearer the door than you are, and I should say about 
three times as strong. How would a fight suit you? ” 

Ware’s hand was in his overcoat pocket. 


THE CINEMA MURDER 223 


* Not particularly,” he answered. “ Besides, it 
wouldn’t be fair. You see, I am armed, and you’re 
not.” 

As though for curiosity, he drew from his pocket 
the little revolver which Honeybrook had slipped into 
it. Power looked at it and shrugged his shoulders. 

“We'll leave that out, then, for the moment,” he 
said. ‘“ Now listen to me. I’m off on another tack 
now. Eight years ago I met Elizabeth Dalstan. I 
was thirty-eight years old then—I am forty-six 
now. You young men nowadays go through your 
life, they tell me, with a woman on your hands most 
of the time, waste yourself out in a score of passions, 
go through the same old rigmarole once a year or 
something like it. I was married when I was twenty- 
four. I got married to lay my hands on the first 
ten thousand dollars I needed. My wife left me 
fifteen years ago. You may have read of her. She 
was a storekeeper’s daughter then. She has a flat 
in Paris now, a country house in England, a villa 
at Monte Carlo and another at Florence. She lives 
her life, I live mine. She’s the only woman I’d ever 
spoken a civil word to until I met Elizabeth Dalstan, 
or since.” 

Philip was interested despite his violent antipathy 
to the man. 

“A singular record of fidelity,” he remarked 
suavely. 

“Tf you’d drop that play-acting talk and speak 
like a man, I’d like you better,” Sylvanus Power con- 
tinued. “ There it is in plain words. I lived with 
my wife until we quarrelled and she left,me, and 
while she lived with me I thought no more of women 


224 THE CINEMA MURDER 


than cats. When she went, I thought I’d done with 
the sex. Elizabeth Dalstan happened along, and I 
found I hadn’t even begun. Eight years ago we met. 
I offered her at once everything I could offer. Noth- 
ing doing. We don’t need to tell one another that 
she isn’t that sort. I went off and left her, spent a 
winter in Siberia, and came home by China. I sup- 
pose there were women there and in Paris. I was 
there for a month. I didn’t see them. Then Amer- 
ica. Elizabeth Dalstan was still touring, not doing 
much good for herself. I hung around for a time, 
tried my luck once more—no go. Then I went 
back to Europe, offered my wife ten million and 
an income for a divorce. It didn’t suit her, so 
I came back again. The third time I found Eliza- 
beth discouraged. If ever a man found a woman at 
- the right time, I did. She is ambitious — Lord 
knows why! I hate acting and the theatres and 
everything to do with them. However, I tried a new 
move. I built that theatre in New York — there 
isn’t another place like it in the world — and offered 
it to her for a birthday present. Then she began 
to hesitate.” 

** Look here,” Philip broke in, “I know all this. 
I know everything you have told me, and everything 
you can tell me. What about it? What have you 
got to say to me? ” 

“ This,’ Sylvanus Power declared, striking the 
desk with his clenched fist. ‘“‘I have only had one 
consolation all the time I have been waiting — there 
has been no other man. Elizabeth isn’t that sort. 
Each time I was separated and came back, I just 
looked at her and I knew. 'That’s why I have been 


4 


THE CINEMA MURDER 225 


patient. That is why I haven’t insisted upon my 
debt being paid. You COURTS tREY that? ” 

“*T hear what you say.” 

Power crossed the room, helped himself to whisky, 
and returned to his place with the tumbler in his 
hand. There was a brief silence. A little clock 
upon the mantelpiece struck two. The street sounds 
outside had ceased save for the hoot of an occa- 
sional taxicab. Philip was conscious of a burning 
desire to get away. This man, this great lump of 
power and success, standing like a colossus in his 
wonderful home, infuriated him. ‘That a man should 
live who thought he had a right such as he claimed, 
was maddening. 

“ Well,” Power proceeded, setting down the tum- 
bler empty, “you won’t be bought. How am I 
going to get you out of the way?” 

“ You can’t do it,” Philip asserted. ‘I am going 
to-morrow morning to Elizabeth, and I am going to 
pray her to marry me at once.” 

Power swayed for a single moment upon his feet. 
The teeth gleamed between his slightly parted lips. 
His great arm was outstretched, its bursting mus- 
cles showing against the sleeve of his dinner coat. 
His chest was heaving. 

“‘Tf you do it,” he shouted, “ I'll close the theatre 
to-morrow and sack every one in it. Tl buy any 
theatre in New York where you try to present your 
namby-pamby play. Ill buy every manager she 
goes to for an engagement, every newspaper that 
says a word of praise of any work of yours. I tell 
you I’ll stand behind the scenes and pull the strings 
which shall bring you and her to the knowledge of 


226 THE CINEMA MURDER 


what failure and want mean. T’ll give up the great 
things in life. Il devote every dollar I have, every 
thought of my brain, every atom of my power, to 
bringing you two face to face with misery. That’s 
if I keep my hands off you. I mayn’t do that.” 

Philip shrugged his shoulders. 

“Tf I put you in a play,” he said, * which is where 
you really belong, people would find you humorous. 
Your threats don’t affect me at all, Mr. Power. 
Elizabeth can choose.” 

Power leaned over to the switch and turned on an 
electric light above Philip’s head. 

“Blast you, let me look at you!” he thundered. 
““You’re a white-faced, sickly creature to call your- 
self a man! Can’t you see this thing as I see it? 
You’re the sort that’s had women, and plenty of 
them. Another will do for you, and, my God! she is 
the only one I’ve looked at—TI, Sylvanus Power, 
mind —I, who have ruled fate and ruled men all 
my life—Iwant her! Don’t bea fool! Get out of 
my path. I’ve crushed a hundred such men as you 
in my day.” 

Philip took up his hat. 

“We are wasting time,” he observed. ‘“* You are 
a cruder person than I thought you, Mr. Power. I 
am sorry for you, if that’s anything.” 

“Sorry for me? You?” 

“Very,” Philip continued. ‘ You see, you’ve im- 
bibed a false view of life. You’ve placed yourself 
amongst the gods and your feet really are made of 
very sticky clay. ... Shall I find my own way 
out? ” 

‘You can find your way to hell!” Power roared. 


THE CINEMA MURDER 227 


* Use your toy pistol, if you want to. You’re going 
where you'll never need it again! ” 

He took a giant stride, a stride which was more 
like the spring of a maddened bull, towards Philip. 
The veneer of a spurious civilisation seemed to have 
fallen from him. He was the great and splendid 
animal, transformed with an overmastering passion. 
There was murder in his eyes. His great right arm, 
with its long, hairy fingers and its single massive 
ring, was like the limb of some prehistoric creature. 
Philip’s brain and his feet, however, were alike nim- 
ble. He sprang a little on one side, and though that 
first blow caught him just on the edge of the shoul- 
der and sent him spinning round and round, he 
saved himself by clutching at the desk. Fortunately, 
it was his left arm that hung helpless by his side. 
His fingers groped feverishly in the cavernous folds 
of his overcoat pocket. Power, who had dashed 
against the wall, smashing the glass of one of the 
pictures, had already recovered his balance and 
turned around. The little revolver, with whose use 
Philip was barely acquainted, flashed suddenly out 
in the lamplight. Even in that lurid moment he kept 
his nerve. He aimed at the right arm outstretched 
to strike him, and pulled the trigger. Through the 
little mist of smoke he saw a spasm of pain in his 
assailant’s face, felt the thundering crash of his other 
arm, striking him on the side of the head. The room 
spun round. There was a second almost of uncon- 
sciousness. . . . When he came to, he was lying with 
his finger pressed against the electric bell. Power 
was clutching the desk for support, and gasping. 
The sober person in black, with a couple of footmen 


228 THE CINEMA MURDER 


behind, were already in the room. . . . Their master 
turned to them. 

**'There has been an accident here,” he groaned, 
* nothing serious. Take that gentleman and put him 
in the car. It’s waiting outside for him. Telephone 
round for Doctor Renshaw.” 

For a single moment the major-domo hesitated. 
The weapon was still smoking in Philip’s hand. 'Then 
Power’s voice rang out again in furious command. 

“Do as I tell you,” he ordered. “If there’s one 
of you here opens his lips about this, he leaves my 
service to-morrow. Not a dollar of pension, mind,” 
he added, his voice shaking a little. 

The servant bowed sombrely. 

“Your orders shall be obeyed, sir,” he promised. 

He took up the telephone, and signed to one of 
- the footmen, who helped Philip to the door. A mo- 
ment afterwards the latter sank back amongst the 
cushions, a little dizzy and breathless, but revived 
almost instantly by the cool night air. He gave the 
chauffeur his address, and the car glided through 
the iron gates and down Fifth Avenue. 


CHAPTER XI 


Philip was awakened the next morning by the in- 
sistent ringing of the telephone at his elbow. He 
took up the receiver, conscious of a sharp pain in 
his left shoulder as he moved. 

“Is this Mr. Merton Ware?” a man’s smooth 
voice enquired. 

ess 

“I am speaking for Mr. Sylvanus Power. Mr. 
Sylvanus Power regrets very much that he is unable 
to lunch with Mr. Ware as arranged to-day, but he 
is compelled to go to Philadelphia on the morning 
train. He will be glad to meet Mr. Ware anywhere, 
a week to-day, and know the result of the matter 
which was discussed last night.” 

“To whom am I speaking?” Philip demanded. 
*T don’t know anything about lunching with Mr. 
Power to-day.” 

“I am Mr. Power’s secretary, George Lunt,” was 
the reply. ‘ Mr. Power’s message is very clear. He 
wishes you to know that he will not be in New York 
until a week to-day.” 

“ How is Mr. Power? ” Philip enquired. 

“He met with a slight accident last night,” the 
voice continued, “ and is obliged to wear his arm in 
a sling. Except for that he is quite well. He has 
already left for Philadelphia by the early train. He 
was anxious that you should know this.” 


230 THE CINEMA MURDER 


‘“¢'Thank you very much,” Philip murmured, a lit~ 
tle dazed. 

He sprang out of bed, dressed quickly, hurried 
over his coffee and rolls, boarded a cross-town car, 
and arrived at the Monmouth House flats just in 
time to meet Martha Grimes issuing into the street. 
She was not at all the same Martha. She was very 
neatly dressed, her shoes were nicely polished, her 
clothes well brushed, her gloves new, and she wore a 
bunch of fresh-looking violets in her waistband. She 
started in surprise as Philip accosted her. 

“‘ Whatever are you doing back in the slums? ” she 
demanded. ‘“* Any fresh trouble? ” 

* Nothing particular,” Philip replied, turning 
round and falling into step with her. “TI can’t see 
my way, that’s all,’and I want to talk to you. 
You’re the most human person I know, and you un- 
derstand Elizabeth.” 

“Gee!” she smiled. ‘This is the lion and the 
mouse, with a vengeance. You can walk with me, 
if you like, as far as the block before the theatre. 
I’m not going to arrive there with you, and I tell 
you so straight.” 

“No followers, eh? ” 

“ There’s no reason to set people talking,” she de- 
clared. “Their tongues wag fast enough at the 
theatre, as it is. I’ve only been there for one day’s 
work, and it seems to me I’ve heard the inside history 
of every one connected with the place.” 

“That makes what I have to say easier,” he re- 
marked. “ Just what do they say about Miss Dal- 
stan and Mr. Sylvanus Power? ” 

She looked at him indignantly. 


THE CINEMA MURDER 231 


“If you think you’re going to worm things out of 
me Sit 

Don’t be foolish,” he interrupted, a little 
wearily. ‘“‘ How could you know anything? You 
are only the echo of a thousand voices. I could find 
out, if I went where they gossip. I don’t. In ef- 
fect I don’t care, but I am up against a queer situ- 
ation. I want to know just what people think of 
them. Afterwards I’ll tell you the truth.” 

“Well, they profess to think,” she said slowly, 
‘that the theatre belongs to Miss Dalstan, and that 
she —” 

“Stop, please,” he interrupted. “I know you 
hate saying it, and I know quite well what you mean. 
Well, what about that? ” 

“Tt isn’t my affair.” 

“Tt isn’t true,” he told her. 

“ Whether it’s true or not, she is one of the best 
women in the world,” Martha declared vigorously. 

“There isn’t any doubt about that, either,” he 
assented. “This is the situation. Listen. Syl- 
vanus Power has been in love with Elizabeth for the 
best part of his life. He built that theatre for her 
and offered it — at a price. She accepted his terms. 
When the time came for payment, he saw her flinch. 
He went away again and has just come back. She 
is face to face now with a decision, a decision to 
which she is partly committed. In the meantime, 
during these last few months, Elizabeth and I have 
become great friends. You know that I care for 
her. I think that she cares for me. She has to 
make up her mind. Martha, which is she to 


choose? ”’ 


232 THE CINEMA MURDER 


“How do you want me to answer that?” the girl 
asked, slackening her pace a little. ‘“ I’m not Miss 
Dalstan.” 

“From her point of view,” he explained eagerly. 
“This man Power is madly and I believe truly in 
love with her. In his way he is great; in his way, 
too, he is a potenate. He can give her more than 
luxury, more, even, than success. You know Eliza- 
beth,” he went on. ‘“ She is one of the finest women 
who ever breathed, an idealist but a seeker after big 
things. She deserves the big things. Is she more 
likely to find them with me or with him? ” 

* Power’s wife is still alive,” she ruminated. 

** And won’t accept a divorce at present,” he ob- 
served. ‘If ever she does, of course he will marry 
her. That has to be taken into account not morally 
but the temporal side of it. We know perfectly well 
that whatever Elizabeth decides, she couldn’t possi- 
bly do wrong.” 

Martha smiled a little grimly. 

‘“'That’s what it is to be born in the clouds,” she 
said. ‘“ There is no sin for a good woman.” 

He looked at her appreciatively. 

“I wonder how I knew that you would understand 
this,” he sighed. 

Suddenly he clutched at her arm. She glanced 
up in surprise. He was staring at a passer-by. 
Her eyes followed his. In a neat morning suit, with 
a black bowler hat and well-polished shoes, a cigar 
in his mouth and a general air of prosperity, Mr. 
Edward Dane was strolling along Broadway. He 
passed without a glance at either of them. For a 
moment Philip faltered. Then he set his teeth and 


THE CINEMA MURDER 233 


_ walked on. ‘There was an ashen shade in his face. 
The girl looked at him and shook her head. 

“Mr. Ware,” she said, “ we haven’t talked much 
about it, but there is something there behind, isn’t 
there, something you are terrified about, something 
that might come, even now? ” 

“She knows about it,” he interposed quickly. 

“Would it be very bad if it came?” 

** Hideous!” 

“If she were your wife —?” 

** She would be notorious. It would ruin her.” 

* Do you think, then,” she asked quietly, “ that 
you needed to come and ask my advice? ” 

He walked on with his head high, looking upwards 
with unseeing eyes. A little vista of that. undis- 
turbed supper table on the other side of the marble 
hall, a dim perspective of those eight years of wait- 
ing, flitted through his brain. The lord of that 
Fifth Avenue Mansion was in earnest, right enough, 
and he had so much to offer. 

“It will break me if I have to give her up,” he 
said simply. ‘I believe I should have gone over- 
board, crossing the Atlantic, but for her.” 

“There are some women,” she sighed, “ the best 
of all women, the joy of whose life seems to be sac- 
rifice. That sounds queer, don’t it, but it’s true. 
They’re happy in misfortune, so long as they are 
helping some one else. She is wonderful, Elizabeth 
Dalstan. She may even be one of those. You'll find 
that out. You'd better find out for yourself. There 
isn’t any one can help you very much.” 

“TI am not sure that you haven’t,” he said. “ Now 
TP’ll go. Where did you get your violets, Martha? 


234 THE CINEMA MURDER 


Had them in water since last night, haven’t you? * 

She made a little grimace at him. 

*“ A very polite young gentleman at the box office 
sent us each a bunch directly we started work yes- 
terday. I’ve only had a few words with him yet, 
but Eva — that’s the other girl — she’s plagued to 
death with fellows aiready, so I’m going to take him 
out one evening.” 

Philip stopped short. They were approaching 
the theatre. 

“Not a step further,” he declared solemnly. “I 
wouldn’t spoil your prospects for worlds. Run 
along, my little cynic, and warm your hands. Life’s 
good at your age — better than when I found you, 
eh: p 99 

‘You don’t think I am ungrateful? ” Abs asked, 
a little wistfully. 

He shook his head. 

“You couldn’t be that, Martie . - » Good luck 
to you!” 

She turned away with a [itle farewell wave of 
the hand and was lest at once in the surging stream 
of people. Phinp summoned a taxicab, sat far back 
in the cornez, and Grove to his rooms. He hesi- 
tated fcr a moment before getting out, crossed the 
pavement quickly, hurried into the lift, and, arriv- 
inz ap-stairs, let down the latch of the outside door. 
#dward Dane was back in New York! For a mo- 
meat, the memory of the great human drama in 
wnien he found himself a somewhat pathetic figure 
seemed swallowed up by this sudden resurrection of 
a gris{y tragedy. He looked around his room a little 
helplessly. Against his will, that hideous vision 


THE CINEMA MURDER 235 


which had loomed up before him in so many moments 
of depression was slowly reforming itself, this time 
not in the still watches of the night but in the broad 
daylight, with the spring sunshine to cheer his heart, 
the roar of a friendly city in his ears. It was no 
time for dreams, this, and yet he felt the misery 
sweeping in upon hin, felt all the cold shivers of 
his ineffective struggles. Slowly that fateful pano- 
rama unfolded itself before his memory. He saw 
himself step out with glad relief from the uncom- 
fortable, nauseous, third-class carriage, and, clutch- 
ing his humble little present in his hand, cross the 
flinty platform, climb the long, rain-swept hill, keep- 
ing his head upraised, though the very sky seemed 
grimy, battling against the miserable depression of 
that everlasting ugliness. Before him, at least, there 
was his one companion. There would be kind words, 
sympathy, a cheerful fireside, a little dreaming, a 
little wandering into that world which they had 
made for themselves with the help of such treasures 
as that cheap little volume he carried. And then 
the last few steps, the open door, the room, its air 
at first of wonderful comfort, and then the queer 
note of luxury obtruding itself disquietingly, the 
picture on the mantelpiece, her coming. He had 
never been in love with Beatrice. He knew that now 
perfectly well. He had simply clung to her because 
she was the only living being who knew and under- 
stood, because they had mingled their thoughts and 
trodden the path of misery together. Removed now 
from that blaze of passion, smouldering perhaps in 
him through previous years of discontent, but, which 
leaped into actual and effective life for the first 


236 THE CINEMA MURDER 


time in those few moments, he realised a certain jus- 
tice in her point of view, a certain hard logic in the 
way she had spoken of life and their relations. There - 
had been so little real affection between them. So 
little had passed which might have constituted a 
greater bond. It was his passionate outburst of re- 
volt against life, whose drear talons seemed to have 
fastened themselves into his very soul, which had 
sent him out with murder in his brain to seek the 
man who had robbed him of the one thing which 
stood between him and despair; the pent-up fury 
of a lifetime which had tingled in his blood and had 
given him the strength of the navvy in those few 
minutes by the canal side. 

He covered his face with his hands, strode around 
the room, gazing wildly out over the city, trying to 
listen to the clanging of the surface cars, the rumble 
of the overhead railway in the distance, the break- 
ing of the long, ceaseless waves of human feet upon 
the pavement. It was useless.. No effort of his will 
could keep from his brain the haunting memory of 
those final moments — the man’s face, handsome and 
well-satisfied at first, the careless greeting, the sud- 
den change, the surprise, the apprehension, the 
ghastly fear, the agony! He heard the low, gur- 
gling shriek of terror; he looked into the eyes with 
the fear of hell before them! ‘Then he heard the 
splash of the black, filthy water. 

There was a cry. It was several seconds before 
he realised that it had broken from his lips. He 
looked around him like a hunted creature. There 
was another terror now—the gloomy court with 
its ugly, miserable paraphernalia — the death, uglier 


THE CINEMA MURDER 237 
still, death in disgrace, a sordid, ghastly thing! And 


in his brain, too, there was so much dawning, so many 
wonderful ideas craving for fulfilment. These few 
menths had been months of marvellous development. 
The power of the writer had seemed to grow, hour 
by hour. His brain was full of fancies, exquisite 
fancies some of them. It was a new world growing 
up around him and within him, too beautiful a world 
to leave. Yet, in those breathless moments, fear was 
the dominant sensation. He felt a coward to his 
fingertips. ... 

He walked up and down the room feverishly, as 
a man might pace a prison in the first few moments 
of captivity. ‘There was no escape! If he disap- 
peared again, it would only rivet suspicion the more 
closely. ‘There was no place to which he could fly, 
no shelter save on the other side of the life which 
he had just begun to love. His physical condition 
began to alarm him. He felt his forehead by acci- 
dent and found it damp with sweat. His heart was 
beating irregularly with a spasmodic vigour which 
brought pain. He caught sight of his terror-stricken 
face in the looking-glass, and the craving to escape 
from his frenzied solitude overcame all his other reso- 
lutions. He rushed to the telephone, spoke with 
Phoebe, waited breathlessly whilst she fetched his 
mistress to the instrument. 

** I want to see you,” he begged, as soon as he was 
conscious of her presence at the other end. “I want 
to see you at once.” 

““ Has anything happened?” she asked quickly. 

“Yes!” he almost groaned. “I can’t tell 
you fo 98 


238 THE CINEMA MURDER 


“I will be with you in ten minutes,” she prom- 
ised, 

He set the receiver down. Those ten minutes were 
surely the longest which had ever ticked their way 
into Eternity! And then she came. He heard the 
lift stop and his door open. There was a moment’s 
breathless silence as their eyes met, then a little 
gathering together of the lines of her forehead, a 
half querulous, half sympathetic smile. She shook 
her head at him. 

“* You’ve had one of those silly nervous attacks,” 
she declared. ‘ Tell me at once why? ” 

‘Dane is back —I saw him on the pavement this 
morning!” he exclaimed. ‘‘ He has been to Eng- 
land to find out!” 

She made him sit down and seated herself by his 
side. | 

“Listen,” she said, “ Dane came back on the 
Orinoco, the day before yesterday. I saw his name 
in the paper. If his voyage to England had been a 
success, which it could not have been, you would have 
heard from him before now.” : 

* T didn’t think of that,” he muttered. 

“JT have never asked you,” she went on, “ to tell 
me exactly what happened behind there. I don’t 
want to know. Only I have a consciousness — I 
had from the first, when you began to talk to me 
about it—-that your fears were exaggerated. If 
you have been allowed to remain safe all this time, 
you will be safe always. I feel it, and I am always 
right in these things. Now use your own common 
sense. ‘Tell me truthfully, don’t you think it is very 
improbable that anything could be discovered? ” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 239 


“That anything could be proved,” he admitted 
eagerly, “ yes!” 

“Then don’t be silly. No one is likely to make 
accusations and attempt a case unless they had a 
definite end in view. We are safe even from the 
Elletania people. Mr. Raymond Greene has ceased 
to talk of your wonderful resemblance to Douglas 
Romilly. Phoebe — the only one who could really 
know — will never open her lips. Now take me for 
a little walk. We will look in the shops in Fifth 
Avenue and lunch at the Ritz-Carlton. Go and 
brush yourself and make yourself look respectable. 
I'll have a cigarette and read the paper. . . . No, I 
won’t, I’ll look over these loose sheets and see how 
you are getting on.” , 

He disappeared into his room for a few minutes. 
When he returned she was entirely engrossed. She 
looked up at him with something almost of reverence 
in her face. 

** When did you write this? ” she asked. 

** Yesterday, most of it,” he answered. ‘“ There 
is more of it—[ haven’t finished yet. When you 
send me away this afternoon, I shall go on. That 
is only the beginning. I have a great idea dawn- 
ing.” 

“What you have written is wonderful,” she said 
simply. “It makes me feel almost humble, makes 
me feel that the very best actress in the world re- 
mains only an interpretress. Yes, I can say those 
words you have written, but they can never be mine. 
I want to be something more than an intelligent par- 
rot, Philip. Why can’t you teach me to feel and 
think things like that? ” 


240 THE CINEMA MURDER 


“You!” he murmured, as he took her arm and 
led her to the door. ‘“ You could feel all the sweetest 
and most wonderful things in heaven. 'The writer’s 
knack is only a slight gift. I put on paper what 
lives in your heart.” 

She raised her head, and he kissed her lips. For 
a moment he held her quite quietly. Her arms en- 
circled him. The perfume of her clothes, her hair, 
her warm, gentle touch, seemed like a strong’ seda- 
tive. If she said that he was safe, he must be. It 
was queer how so often at these times their sexes 
seemed reversed; it was he who felt that womanly 
desire for shelter and protection which she so amply 
afforded him. She patted his cheek. 

‘** Now for our little walk,” she said. ‘* Open the 
windows and let out all these bad fancies of yours. 
And listen,” she went on, as they stepped out of the 
lift a moment or two later, and passed through the 
hall towards the pavement, “ not a word about our 
own problem. We are going to talk nonsense. We 
are going to be just two light-hearted children in this 
wonderful city, gazing at the sights and taking all 
she has to offer us. I love it, you know. I love 
the noise of it. It isn’t a distant, stifled roar like 
London. There’s a harsh, clarion-like note about it, 
like metal striking upon metal. And the smell of 
New York —there isn’t any other city like it! 
When we get into Fifth Avenue I am going to direct 
your attention to the subject of hats. Have you 
ever bought a woman’s hat, Philip? ” 

“ Never,” he answered, truthfully enough. 

“Then you are going to this morning, or rather 
you are going to help me to choose one,” she de- 


THE CINEMA MURDER 241 


clared, “ and in a very few moments, too. There 
is a little place almost underground in Fifth Avenue 
there, and a Frenchwoman — oh, she is so French! 
<—and all her assistants have black hair and wear 
untidy, shapeless clothes and velvet slippers. It 
isn’t New York at all, but I love it, and I let them 
put their name on the programme. They really 
don’t charge me more than twice as much as they 
ought to for my hats. We go down here,” she added, 
descending some steps, “and if you make eyes at 
any of the young women I shall bring you straight 
out again.” 

They spent half an hour choosing a hat and nearly 
two hours over lunch. It was late in the afternoon 
before she dropped him at his rooms. Not a word 
had they spoken of Sylvanus Power or their future, 
but Philip was a different man. Only, as he turned 
and said good-by, his voice trembled. 

“TI can’t say thank you,” he muttered, “ but you 
know!” . . 

The lift was too slow for him. He opened his 
door with almost breathless haste. He only paused 
to light a cigarette and change his coat and wheel 
his table round so as to catch the afternoon light 
more perfectly. Then, with his brain teeming with 
fancies, he plunged into his work. 


CHAPTER XII 


Philip let the pen slip at last from his tired fingers. 
The light had failed.. He had been writing with 
straining eyes, almost in the darkness. But there 
was something else. Had it been fancy or... 
This time there could be no mistake. He had not 
heard the lift stop, but some one was knocking softly 
at the door, softly but persistently. He turned his 
head. The room seemed filled with shadows. He 
had written for hours, and he was conscious that his 
limbs were stiff. The sun had gone down im a cloudy 
sky, and the light had faded. He could scarcely dis- 
tinguish the articles of furniture at the further end 
of the room. For some reason or other he felt 
tongue-tied. Then, without any answer from him to 
this mysterious summons, the handle of the door 
slowly turned. As he sat there he saw it pushed 
open. A woman, wrapped in a long coat, stepped 
inside, closing it firmly behind her. She stood peer- 
ing around the room. ‘There was something familiar 
and yet unfamiliar in her height, her carriage. He 
waited, spellbound, for her voice. 

“Douglas!” she exclaimed. ‘‘ Ah, there you 
are!”? 

The words seemed to die away, unuttered, upon his 
lips. He suddenly thought that he was choking. 
He stared at her blankly. It was impossible! She 


THE CINEMA MURDER 243 


came a step further into the room. Her hand was 
stretched out accusingly. 

**So I’ve found you, have I, Douglas? ” she cried, 
and there was a note of bitter triumph in her words, 
“found you after all these months! Aren’t you ter- 
rified? Aren’t you afraid? No wonder you sit 
there, shrinking away! Do you know what I have 
come for? ” 

He tried to speak, but his lips were as powerless 
to frame words as his limbs were to respond to his 
desire for movement. ‘This was the one thing which 
he had not foreseen. 

“You broke your promise,” she went on, raising 
her voice a little in passionate reproach. “ You left 
me there alone to face dismissal, without a penny, 
and slipped off yourself to America. You never even 
came in to wish me good-by. Why? ‘Tell me why 
you went without coming near me? . . . You won’t, 
eh? You daren’t. Beaman. Out with it. I am 
here, and I know the truth.” 

For the first time some definite sound came from 
his lips. 

“* Beatrice!” he gasped. 

* Ah!” she mocked. ‘“ You can remember my 
name, then? Douglas, I knew that you were a bad 
man. I knew that when you told me how you meant 
to cheat your creditors, how you meant to escape 
over here on the pretext of business, and bring all 
the money you could scrape together. I knew that, 
and yet I was willing to come with you, and I should 
have come. But there was one thing I didn’t reckoa 
upon. I didn’t know that you had the heart or the 
courage to be a murderer!” 


244 THE CINEMA MURDER 


The little cry that broke from his lips was stifled 
even before it was uttered. 

“IT shall never forgive you!” she sobbed. “TI 
never want to touch your bloodstained fingers! I 
have forgotten that I ever loved you. You're hor- 
rible — do you hear? —horrible! And yet, I don’t 
mean to be left to starve. That’s why I’ve followed 
you. You’re afraid I am going to give you up to 
justice? Well, I don’t know. It depends... . 
Turn on the lights. I want to see you. Do you 
hear? I want to see how you can face me. I want 
to see how the memory of that afternoon has dealt 
with you. Do as I tell you. Don’t stand there 
glowering at me.” 

He crossed the room with stumbling footsteps. 

* You’ve learnt to stoop, anyhow,” she went on. 
* You’re thinner, too. . . . My God!” 

The room was suddenly flooded with light. Philip, 
rigid and ghastly, was looking at her from the other 
side of the table. She held up her hands as though 
to shut out the sight of him. . 

“Philip!” she shrieked. “ Philip! ... Oh, my 
God!” 

Her eyes were lit with horror as she swayed upon 
her feet. For a moment she seemed about to col- 
lapse. Then she groped her way towards the door 
and stood there, clinging to the handle. Slowly she 
looked around over her shoulder, her face as white as 
death. She moistened her lips with her tongue, her 
eyes glared at him. Behind, her brain seemed to be_ 
working. Her first spasm of inarticulate fear 
passed. 

** Philip — alive!” she muttered. “ Alive! ... 


THE CINEMA MURDER 245 


Speak! Can’t you speak to me? Are you a 
ghost? ” 

“Of course not,” he answered, with a calm which 
surprised him. ‘“ You can’t have forgotten in less 
than six months what I look like.” 

A new expression struggled into her face. She 
abandoned her grasp of the handle and came back to 
her former position. 

“Look here,” she faltered, “if you are Philip 
Romilly, where’s he— Douglas? . . . Where’s 
Douglas? ” 

There was no answer. Philip simply looked at 
her. She began to shake once more upon her 
feet. 

**Where’s Douglas?” she demanded fiercely. 
“Tell me? Tell me quickly, before I go mad! If 
you are Philip Romilly alive, if it wasn’t your body 
they found, where’s Douglas? ” 

“You can guess what happened to him,” Philip 
said slowly. ‘‘I met him on the towing-path by the 
side of the canal. I spoke to him— about you. 
He answered me with a jest. I think that all the 
passion of those grinding years of misery swept up 
at that moment from my heart. I was strong — 
God, how strong I was! I took him by the throat, 
Beatrice. I watched his face change. I watched 
his damned, self-satisfied complacency fade away. 
He lost all his smugness, and his eyes began to stare 
at me, and his lips grew whiter as they struggled to 
utter the cries for mercy which choked back. 
Then I flung him in—that’s all. Splash! ... 
God, I can hear it now! I saw his face just under 
the water. Then I went on.” 


246 THE CINEMA MURDER 


“You went on?” she repeated, trembling in every 
limb. 

“IT picked up the pocketbook which I had shaken 
out of his clothes in that first struggle. I studied its 
contents, and it gave me an idea. I went to Liver- 
pool, stayed at the hotel where he had engaged 
rooms, dressed myself in his clothes, and went on the 
steamer in his place. I travelled to New York as 
Mr. Douglas Romilly of the Douglus Romilly Shoe 
Company, occupied my room at the Waldorf under 
that name. Then I disappeared suddenly — there 
were too many people waiting to see me. I took the 
pseudonym which he had carefully prepared for him- 
self and hid for a time in a small tenement house. 
Then I rewrote the play. There you have my 
story.” . 

“ ‘You — murdered him, Philip! ... You!” 

‘It was no crime,” he continued calmly, filled with 
a queer sense of relief at the idea of being able to talk 
about it. ‘“‘ My whole life, up till that day, had been 
one epitome of injustice and evil fortune. You were 
my one solace. His life — well, you know what it 
_had been. Everything was made easy for him. He 
had a luxurious boyhood, he was sent to college, pam- 
pered and spoilt, and passed on to a dissipated man- 
hood. He spent a great fortune, ruined a magnifi- 
cent business. He lived, month by month, hour by 
hour, for just the voluptuous pleasures which his 
wealth made possible to him. ‘That was the man I 
met on the canal bank that afternoon. You know 
the state I was in. You know very well the grievance 
I had against him.” 

“You had no right to interfere,” she said dully. 


THE CINEMA MURDER 247 


“If I chose to accept what he had to give, it was my 
business. There never had been over-much affection 
between you and me. We were just waifs together. 
Life wouldn’t give us what we wanted. I had made 
up my mind months before to escape whenever the 
opportunity came. Douglas brought it to me 
and I snatched at it. I am not accepting any 
blame.” 

He leaned towards her. 

* Neither am I,” he declared. ‘Do you remem- 
ber we used to talk about the doctrine of responsibil- 
ity? Iama pervert. I did what I had to do, and 
I am content.” 

She stood quite still for several moments. ‘Then 
she took out the pins from her hat, banged it upon 
the table, opened her tweed coat, came round to the 
fireside, and threw herself into an easy-chair. Her 
action was portentous and significant. 

* Tell me how you found me out? ” he asked, after 
a brief pause. 

“IT was dismissed from Detton Magna,” she told 
him. “I had to go and be waiting-maid to Aunt 
Esther at Croydon. I took the place of her maid-of- 
all-work. I scrubbed for my living. There wasn’t 
anything else. I hadn’t clothes to try for the bolder 
things, not a friend in the world, but I was only 
waiting. I meant, at the first chance, to rob Aunt 
Esther, to come to London, dress myself properly, 
and find a post on the stage, if possible. I wasn’t 
particular. Then one day a man came to see me — 
an American. He’d travelled all the way from New 
York because he was interested in what he called the 
mysterious Romilly disappearance. He knew that I 


248 THE CINEMA MURDER 


had been Douglas’ friend. He asked me to come 
out and identify — you! He offered me my passage, 
a hundred pounds, and to give me a start in life here, 
if I needed it. So I came out with him.” 

** With Dane,” he muttered. 

She nodded. 

* Yes, that was his name — Mr. Edward Dane. I 
came out to identify Douglas.” 

“You weren’t going to give him away?” Philip 
asked curiously. 

“Of course not. I should have made my bargain, 
and then, after I had scared Douglas for leaving me 
as he did, I should have said that it wasn’t the man. 
And instead —I found you!” 

He tapped the table with his fingers, restlessly. 
A new hope was forming in his brain. This, indeed, 
might be the end of all his troubles. 

** Listen,” he said earnestly, ““ Dane has always 
suspected me. Sometimes I have wondered whether 
he hadn’t the truth at the back of his head. You 
can make me safe forever.” . 

She made no reply. Her eyes were watching his © 
face. She seemed to be waiting to hear what else he 
had to say. 

“ Don’t you understand? ” he went on impatiently. 
“You have only to tell Dane that I am neither Doug- 
las nor Philip, but curiously like both, and he will 
chuck the thing up. He must. Then I shall be safe. 
You see that, don’t you? ” 

“Yes, I see that,” she admitted. 

“Well? ” 

“Tell me exactly how much of Douglas’ money 
you have spent? ” she demanded. 


THE CINEMA MURDER 249 


“Only the loose money from the pocketbook. 
Not all of that. I am earning money now.” 

She leaned across the table. 

* What about the twenty thousand pounds? ” 

“JT haven’t touched it,’? he assured her, “not a 
penny.” 

** On your honour? ” 

He rose silently and went to his desk, unlocked 
one of the drawers, and drew from a hidden place a 
thin strip of paper. He smoothed it out on the 
table before her. 

“'There’s the deposit note,” he said,—“* Twenty 
thousand pounds to the joint or separate credit of 
Beatrice Wenderly and Douglas Romilly, on demand. 
The money’s there still. I haven’t touched it.” 

She gripped the paper in her fingers. The sight 
of the figures seemed to fascinate her. Then she 
looked around. 

“ How can you afford to live in a place like this, 
then? ” she demanded suspiciously. ‘‘ Where does 
your money come from? ” 

“The play,” he told her. 

“What, all this? ” she exclaimed. 

“It is a great success. The theatre is packed 
every night. My royalties come every week to far 
more than I could spend.” 

She looked once more around her, gripped the de- 
posit note in her fingers, and leaned back in her 
chair. She laughed curiously. Her eyes had trav- 
elled back to Philip’s anxious face. | 

“ Wonderful!*? she murmured. ‘“ You paid the 
price, but you’ve won. You’ve had something for it. 
I paid the price, and up till now —” 


250 THE CINEMA MURDER 


She stared at the paper in her hand. Then she 
looked away into the fire. 

“I can’t get it all into my head,” she went on. 
*T pictured him here, living in luxury, spending the 
money of which he had promised me a share... 
and he’s dead! That was his body — that unrecog- 
nisable thing they found in the canal. You killed 
him — Douglas! He was so fond of life, too.” 

“Fond of the things which meant life to him,” 
Philip muttered. 

“I should never have believed that you had the 
courage,” she observed ruminatingly. “ After all, 
then, he wasn’t faithless. He wasn’t the brute I 
thought him.” 

She sat thinking for what seemed to him to be an 
interminable time. He broke in at last upon her 
meditations. 

** Well,” he asked, “ what are you going to say te 
Dane? ” 

“JT shan’t give you away—at least I don’t 
think so,” she promised cautiously. ‘I shall see. 
Presently I will make terms, only this time I am 
not going to be left. I am going to have what I 
want.” 

** But he’ll be waiting to hear from you! ” Philip 
exclaimed. ‘‘ He may come here, even.” 

She shook her head. 

‘“¢ He’s gone to Chicago. He can’t be back for five 
days. I promised to wire, but I shan’t. Tl wait 
until he’s back. And in the meantime —” 

Her fingers closed upon the deposit note. He nod- 
ded shortly. 

“That’s yours,” he said. ‘ You can have it all 


THE CINEMA MURDER 251 


I have helped myself to a fresh start in life at his ex- 
pense. That’s all I wanted.” 

She folded up the paper and thrust it carefully 
into the bosom of her gown. Then she stood up. 

* Well,” she pronounced, “I think I am getting 
used to things. It’s wonderful how callous one can 
become. ‘The banks are closed now, I suppose? ” 

He nodded. 

“They will be open at nine o’clock in the morn- 
ing.” 

“ First of all, then,” she decided, “ I’ll make sure 
of my twenty thousand pounds, and then we'll see. I 
don’t think you’ll find me hard, Philip. I ought not 
to be hard on you, ought I? ” 

She looked at him most kindly, and he began to 
shiver. Curiously enough, her very kindness, when 
he realised the knowledge which lay behind her brain, 
was hateful to him. He had pleaded for her forgive- 
ness, even her toleration, but — anything else seemed 
horrible! She strolled across the room and glanced 
at the clock, took one of his cigarettes from a box 
and lit it. 

** Well, this is queer!” she murmured reflectively. 
** Now I want some dinner, and I’ll see your play, 
Philip. You shall take me. Get ready quickly, 
please.” 

He looked at her doubtfully. 

“But, Beatrice,” he protested, “think! You 
know why you came here? You know the story you 
will have to tell? We are strangers, you and I. 
What if we are seen together? ” 

She snapped her fingers at him. 

* Pooh! Who cares! I am a stranger in New 


252 THE CINEMA MURDER 


York, and I have taken a fancy to you. You area 
young man of gallantry, and you are going to take 
me out. . . . We often used to talk of a little excur- 
sion like this in London. We'll have it in New York 
instead.” 

He turned slowly towards the door of his bedroom. 
She was busy looking at her own eyes in the mirror, 
and she missed the little gleam of horror in his face. 

‘In ten minutes,” he promised her. 


CHAPTER XTif 


Beatrice replaced the programme which she had 
been studying, on the ledge of the box, and turned 
towards Philip, who was seated in the background. 
There was something a little new in her manner. 
Her tone was subdued, her eyes curious. 

“You really are a wonderful person, Philip,” she 
declared. “It’s the same play, just as you used 
to tell it me, word for word. And yet it isn’t. 
What is it that you have gained, I wonder? —a 
sense of atmosphere, breadth, something strangely 
vital.” 

“T am glad you like it,” he said simply. 

“Like it? It’s amazing! And what an audience! 
I never thought that the people were so fashionable 
here, Philip. Iam sitting right back in the box, 
but ten minutes after I have cashed my draft to- 
morrow I shall be buying clothes. You won’t be 
ashamed to be seen anywhere with me then.” 

He drew his chair up to her side, a little haggard 
and worn with the suspense of the evening. She 
laughed at him mockingly. 

“‘ What an idiot you are!” she exclaimed. “ You 
ought to be one of the happiest men in the world, 
and you look like a death’s-head.” 

“The happiest man in the world,” he repeated. 


a54 THE CINEMA MURDER 


** Beatrice, sometimes I think that there is only one 
thing in the world that makes for happiness.” 

** And what’s that, booby? ” she asked, with some 
of her old familiarity. 

** A clear conscience.’ 

She laid her hand upon his arm. 

* Look here, Philip,” she said, “‘ the one thing I 
determined, when I threw up the sponge, was that 
whether the venture was a success or not I’d never 
waste a single moment in regrets. ‘Things didn’t 
turn out too brilliantly with me, as you know. But 
you—see what you’ve attained! Why, it’s won- 
derful! Your play, the one thing you dreamed 
about, produced in one of the greatest cities in the 
world, and a packed house to listen to it, people ap- 
plauding ali the time. I didn’t realise your success 
when we talked this evening. I am just beginning to 
understand. Ive been reading some of these ex- 
tracts from the newspapers. You’re Merton Ware, 
the great dramatist, the coming man of letters. 
You’ve won, Philip. Can’t you see that it’s puling 
cowardice to grumble at the price? ” 

He, for his part, was wondering at her callous- 
ness, of which he was constantly discovering fresh 
evidences. The whole shock of her discovery seemed 
already, in these few hours, to have passed away. 

“If you can forget — so soon,” he muttered, “* I 
suppose I ought to be able to.” 

She made a little grimace, but immediately after- 
wards he saw the cold tightening of her lips. 

“Listen, Philip,” she said. “I started life with 
the usual quiverful of good qualities, but there’s one 
I’ve lost, and I don’t want it back again. I’m a self- 


THE CINEMA MURDER 255 


ish woman, and I mean to stay a selfish woman. J 
am going to live for myself. I’ve paid a fair price, 
and I’m going to have what I’ve paid for. See?” 

“Do you think,’ he asked, “ that it is possible to 
make that sort of bargain with one’s self and fate? ” 

She laughed scornfully. | 

“‘There’s room for a little stiffening in you, even 
now, Philip! No one but a weakling ever talks 
about fate. You’d think better of me, I suppose, 
if I stayed in my room and wept. Well, I could do 
it if I let myself, but I won’t. I should lose several 
hours of the life that belongs to me. You think I 
didn’t care about Douglas? I am not at all sure 
that I didn’t care for him as much as I ever did for 
you, although, of course, he wasn’t worthy of it. 
But he’s gone, and all the shudders and morbid re- 
grets in the world won’t bring him back again. And 
I am here in New York, and to-morrow I shall have 
twenty thousand pounds, and to-night I am with 
you, watching your play. ‘That’s life enough for me 
at present — no more, no less. I hate missing the 
first act, and I’m coming to see it again to-morrow. 
What time is it over?” 

“ Soon after eleven,” he told her. 

She glanced at her watch. 

* You shall take me out and give me some supper,” 
she decided, ‘* somewhere where there’s music.” 

He made no remark, but she surprised again some- 
thing in his face which irritated her. 

“Look here, Philip,” she said firmly, “I won’t 
have you look at me as though I were something in- 
human. There are plenty of other women like me 
in the world, even if they are not quite so frank 


256 THE CINEMA MURDER 


about it. I want to live, and I will live, and I 
grudge every moment out of which I am not extract- 
ing the fullest amount of happiness. 'That’s be- 
cause I’ve paid. It’s the woman’s bargaining in- 
stinct, you know. She wants to get value... 
Now I want to hear about Miss Dalstan. Where 
did you meet her, and how did you get her to accept 
your play? ” | 

“She was on the Elletania,” he explained. ‘ We 
crossed from Liverpool together. She sat at my 
table.”’ 

** How much does she know about you? ” Beatrice 
asked bluntly. 

“ Everything,” he confessed. “I don’t know 
what I should have done without her. She has been 
the most wonderful friend any one could have.” 

Beatrice looked at him a little critically. 

“You’re a queer person, Philip,” she exclaimed. 
* You’re not fit to go about alone, really. Good 
thing I came over to take care of you, I think.” 

** You don’t understand,” he replied. ‘ Miss Dal- 
stan is — well, unlike anybody else. She wants to 
see you. I am to take you round after the next act, 
if you would like to go.” 

Beatrice smiled at him in a gratified manner. 

** ’ve always wanted to go behind the scenes,” she 
admitted. ‘“I’ll come with you, with pleasure. 
Perhaps if I decide that Id like to go on the stage, 
she may be able to help me. How much is twenty 
thousand pounds in dollars, Philip? ” 

«A little over a hundred thousand,” he told her. 

“JT don’t suppose they think that much out here,” 
she went on ruminatingly. ‘‘'The hotel where Mr. 


THE CINEMA MURDER 257 


Dane sent me — it’s nice enough, in its way, but very 
stuffy as regards the people — is twice as expensive 
as it would be in London. However, we shall see.” 

The curtain rang up on the third act, and Bea- 
trice, seated well back in the shadows, followed the 
play attentively, appreciated its good points and 
had every appearance of both understanding and en- 
joying it. Afterwards, she rose promptly to her 
feet, still clapping. 

“T’m longing to meet Miss Dalstan, Philip,” she 
declared. “She is wonderful. And to think that 
you wrote it —that you created the part for her! 
I am really quite proud of you.” 

She laughed at his embarrassment, affecting to 
ignore the fact that it was less the author’s modesty 
than some queer impulse of horror which seemed to 
come over him when any action of hers reminded him 
of their past familiarity. He hurried on, piloting 
her down the corridor to the door of Elizabeth’s 
dressing room. In response to his knock they were 
bidden to enter, and Elizabeth, who was lying on a 
couch whilst a maid was busy preparing her costume 
for the next act, held out her hand with a little wel- 
coming smile. 

“I am so glad to see you, Miss Wenderley,” she 
said cordially. ‘* Philip, bring Miss Wenderley over 
here. You'll forgive my not getting up, won’t you? 
I have to rest for just these few minutes before the 
next act.” 

Beatrice was for a moment overpowered. The 
luxury of the wonderful dressing room, with its per- 
fect French furniture, its white walls hung with a few 
choice sketches, the thick rugs upon the polished 


258 THE CINEMA MURDER 


wood floor, the exquisite toilet table with its wealth 
of gold and tortoiseshell appurtenances — Elizabeth 
herself, so beautiful and gracious — even a hurried 
contemplation of all these things took her breath 
away. She felt suddenly acutely conscious of the 
poverty of her travelling clothes, of her own insig- 
nificance, 

**Won’t you sit down for a moment? ” Elizabeth 
begged, pointing to a chair by her side. ‘“‘ You and 
T must be friends, you know, for Philip’s sake.” 

Beatrice recovered herself a little. She sank into 
the blue satin chair, with its ample cushions, and 
locked down at Elizabeth with something very much 
like awe. 

“I am sure Philip must feel very grateful to you 
for having taken his play,” she declared. “It has 
given him a fresh chance in life.” 

“ After all he has gone through,” Elizabeth said 
gently, “he certainly deserves it. It is a wonder- 
fully clever play, you know... don’t blush, Mr. 
Author!” 

““T heard the story long ago,” Beatrice observed, 
* only of course it sounded very differently then, and 
we never dreamed that it would really be produced.” 

* Philip has told me about those days,” Elizabeth 
said. “I am afraid that you, too, have had your 
share of unhappiness, Miss Wenderley. I only hope 
that life in the future will make up to you something 
of what you have lost.” 

The girl’s face hardened. Her lips came together 
in familiar fashion. 

“IT mean it to,” she declared. ‘I am going to 
make a start to-morrow. I wish, Miss Dalstan, you 


THE CINEMA MURDER 259 


could get Philip to look at things a little more cheer- 
fully. He has been like a ghost ever since I arrived.” 

Elizabeth turned and smiled at him sympathet- 
ically. 

“Your coming must have been rather a shock,” 
she reminded Beatrice. ‘“ You came with the idea, 
did you not, that— you would find Mr. Douglas 
Romilly? ” 

The girl nodded and glanced around for the maid, 
who had disappeared, however, into an inner apart- 
ment. 

“They were always alike,” she confided,—* the 

‘same figures, same shaped head and that sort of 
thing. Douglas was a little overfond of life, though, 
and Philip here hasn’t found out yet what it means. 
It was a shock, though, Miss Dalstan. Philip was 
sitting in the dark when I arrived at his rooms this 
evening, and —I thought it was Douglas.” 

Elizabeth shivered a little. 

* Don’t let us talk about it,” she begged. ‘“ You 
must come and see me, won’t you, Miss Wenderley? 
Philip will tell you where I live. Are you going back 
to England at once? ” | 

“JT haven’t made up my mind yet,” the girl re- 
plied, with a slight frown. “ It just depends.” 

Elizabeth glanced at the little clock upon her 
table, and Philip threw away his cigarette and came 
forward. | 

“We must go, Beatrice,” he announced. “ Miss 
Dalstan has to change her dress for this act.” 

He held out his hand and Elizabeth rose lightly to 
her feet. So far, no word as to their two selves had 
passed their lips. She smiled at him and all this 


260 THE CINEMA MURDER 


sense of throbbing, almost theatrical excitement sub- 
sided. He was once more conscious of the beautiful 
things beyond. Once more he felt the rest of her 
presence. 

“You must let me see something of you to- 
morrow, Philip,” she said. “Telephone, will you? 
Good night, Miss Wenderley.” 

The maid, who had just returned, held the door 
open. Philip glanced back over his shoulder. Eliz- 
abeth blew him a kiss, a gesture which curiously 
enough brought a frown to Beatrice’s face. 


CHAPTER XIV 


The close of the performance left them both cu- 
riously tongue-tied. ‘They waited until the theatre 
was half empty before they left their seats. Then 
they joined the little throng of stragglers at the end. 

“Your play!” she murmured, as they faced the 
soft night air. “I can’t believe it, even now. 
We’ve seen it together — your play — and this is 
New York! That’s a new ending, isn’t it?” 

** Absolutely,” he confessed. “The ending was 
always what bothered me, you know.” 

She laughed, not quite naturally. She was un- 
expectedly impressed. 

““So you’re a genius, after all,” she went on. 
“Sometimes I wondered— but never mind that 
now. Philip, do you know I am starving? We 
took exactly ten minutes over dinner! ” 

He led her to a huge restaurant a few doors away, 
where they found a corner table. Up in the balcony 
an orchestra was playing light music, and a little 
crowd of people were all the time streaming through 
the doors. Beatrice settled herself down with an 
air of content. Few of the people were in evening 
dress, and the tone of the place was essentially demo- 
cratic. Philip, who had learnt a little about Ameri- 
can dishes, gave an order, and Beatrice sipped her 
cocktail with an air of growing appreciation. 


262 THE CINEMA MURDER 


** Queer idea, this, but the stuff tastes all right,” 
she acknowledged. “I suppose, if you were taking 
your dear Miss Dalstan out, you’d go to a different 
sort of place, eh? ” 

“We generally go further up town,” he admitted 
unthinkingly. 

She set her glass down quickly. 

“So you do take her out, do you?” she asked 
coldly. ‘* You’d have been with her to-night, per- 
haps, if I hadn’t been here? ” 

Very likely.” 

She was half inclined to rally him, behind it all a 
little annoyed. 

**'You’re a nice sort of person! Why, it’s only a 
few months ago since you pretended to be in love 
with me!” : 

He looked at her, and her eyes fell before his. 

** IT don’t think there was ever much question of our 
being in love with one another, was there? We sim- 
ply seemed to have drifted together because we 
were both miserable, and then, as the time passed 
on — well, you came to be my only solace against the 
wretchedness of that life.’ 

She nodded appreciatively. For a moment the 
sights and sounds of the noisy restaurant passed 
from her consciousness, 

* Do you remember how glad I was to see you? 
How we used to spend our holidays out in those 
dingy fields and hope and pray for better things 
some day? But it was all so hopeless, wasn’t it! 
You could barely keep yourself from starving, and I 
— oh, the misery of that awful Detton Magna and 
teaching those wretched children! ‘There never were 


THE CINEMA MURDER 263 


such children in the world. I couldn’t get their 
mothers to send them clean. They seemed to have 
inherited all the vice, the bad language, the ugly 
sordidness with which the place reeked. They were 
old men and women in wickedness before they 
passed their first standard. It’s a corner of the 
world I never want to see again. I'd rather find 
hell! Have you ordered any wine, Philip? I want 
to forget.” 

He pointed to the bottle which stood in the pail 
by their side, and summoned a waiter. She watched 
it being opened and their glasses filled. 

“This is like one of our fairy stories of the old 
days, isn’t it?” she said. ‘“ Well, I drink to you, 
Philip. Here’s success to our new lives! ” 

She raised her glass and drained it. A woman 
had entered who reminded him of Elizabeth, and his 
eyes had wandered away for a moment as Beatrice 
pledged him. She called him back a little impa- 
tiently. 

“ Don’t sit there as though you were looking at 
ghosts, Philip! Try and remember who I am and 
what we used to mean to one another. Let us try 
and believe,” she added, a little wistfully, “ that one 
of those dreams of ours which we used to set floating 
like bubbles, has come true. We can wipe out all 
the memories we don’t want. That ought to be 

easy.” 

“Ought it?” he answered grimly. “ There are 
times when I’ve found it difficult enough.” 

She laughed and looked about her. He realised 
suddenly that she was still very attractive with her 
rather insolent mouth, her clear eyes, her silky hair 


264 THE CINEMA MURDER 


with the little fringe. People, as they passed, paid 
her some attention, and she was frankly curious 
about everybody. 

*‘ Well,” she went on presently, “ thank heavens I 
have plenty of will power. I remember nothing, 
absolutely nothing, which happened before this eve- 
ning. I am going to tell myself that an uncle in 
Australia has died and left me money, and so we 
are here in New York to spend it. To-morrow I am 
going to begin. I shall buy clothes — all sorts of 
clothes — and hats. You won’t know me to-morrow 
evening, Philip.” . 

His heart sank. ‘To-morrow evening! 

** But Beatrice,” he expostulated, “ you don’t think 
of staying out here, do you? You don’t know a soul. 
You haven’t a friend in the city.” 

** What friends have I in England? ” she retorted. 
* Not one! I may just as well start a new lifeina 
new country. It seems bright enough here, and gay. 
I like it. I shall move to a different sort of hotel 
to-morrow. You must help me choose one. And as | 
to friends,” she whispered, looking up at him with 
a little provocative gleam in her eyes, “ don’t you 
count? Can’t you do what I am going to do, Philip? 
Can’t you draw down that curtain? ” 

He shivered. 

“T can’t!” he muttered. 

A waiter brought their first course, and she at 
once evinced interest in her food. She returned to 
the subject, however, later on, after she had drunk 
another glass of wine. 

* You’re a silly old thing, you know,” she de- 
clared. ‘“ You found the courage, somehow, to break 


THE CINEMA MURDER 265 


away from that loathsome existence. You had more 
courage, even, than I, because you ran a risk I never 
did. But here you are, free, with the whole world 
before you, and your last danger disappearing with 
the knowledge that I am ready to be your friend and 
am sensible about everything that has happened. 
This ought to be an immense relief to you, Philip. 
You ought to be the happiest man on earth. And 
there you sit, looking like a death’s-head! Look at 
me for a moment like a human being, can’t you? 
Drink some more wine. There must be some 
strength, some manhood about you somewhere, or you 
couldn’t have done what you have done.” 

He filled his glass mechanically. She leaned 
across the table. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks 
delicately pink. 

* Courage, Philip,” she murmured. ‘* Remember 
that what you did . . . well, in a way it was for my 
sake, wasn’t it? —for love of me? I am here now 
and we are,both free. ‘The old days are passed. 
Even their shadow cannot trouble us any longer. 
Don’t be a sentimentalist. Listen and I'll tell you 
something — at the bottom of my heart I rather ad- 
mire you for what you did. Don’t you want your 
reward? ” 

“ No,” he answered firmly, * I don’t!” 

She shrugged her shoulders and kept time with her 
foot to the music. Across the table, although she 
kept silence for a while, she smiled at him whenever 
she caught his eye. She was not angry, not even 
hurt. Philip had always been so difficult, but in the — 
end so easily led. She had unlimited confidence in 
herself, 


266 THE CINEMA MURDER 


“Don’t be a goose! ” she exclaimed at last. “ Of 
course you want your reward, and of course you'll 
have it, some day! You’ve always lived with your 
head partly in the clouds, and it’s always been my 
task to pull you down to earth. I suppose I shall 
have to do the same again, but to-night I haven’t 
patience. I feel suddenly gay. You are so nice- 
looking, Philip, but you’d look ten times nicer still 
if you’d only smile once or twice and look as though 
you were glad.” 

The whole thing was a nightmare to him. The 
horror of it was in his blood, yet he did his best 
to obey. Plain speaking just then was impossible. 
He drank glass after glass of wine and called for 
liqueurs. She held his fingers for a moment under 
the table. 

“Oh, Philip,” she whispered, “ can’t you forget 
that you have ever been a school-teacher, dear? 
We are only human, and did suffer so. You know,” 
she went on, “ you were made for the things that are 
coming to us. You’ve improved already, ever so 
much. I like your clothes and the way you carry 
yourself. But you look — oh, so sad and so far away 
all the time! When I came to your rooms, at my 
first glimpse of you I knew that you were miserable. 
We must alter all that, dear. Tell me how it is 
that with all your success you haven’t been happy? ” 

“* Memories! ”? he answered harshly. ‘“‘ Only a few 
hours before you came, I was in hell!” 

‘Then you had better make up your mind,” she 
told him firmly, “that you are going to climb up 
out of there, and when you’re out, you’re going to 
stay out. You can’t alter the past. You can’t 


THE CINEMA MURDER 267 


alter even the smallest detail of its setting. Just as 
inevitably as our lives come and go, so what has 
happened is finished with, unchangeable. It is only 
a weak person who would spoil the present and 
the future, brooding. You used not to be weak, 
Philip.” 

**T don’t think that I am, really,” he said. “Iam 
moody, though, and that’s almost as bad. The sight 
of you brought it all back. And that fellow Dane 
— D’ve been frightened of him, Beatrice.” 

** Well, you needn’t be any longer,” she declared. 
“ What you want is some one with you all the time 
who understands you, some one to drive back those 
other thoughts when they come to worry you. It is 
really a very good thing for you, dear, that I came 
out to New York. Mr. Dane is going to be very 
disappointed when I tell him that I never saw you 
before in my life. . . . Don’t you love the music? 
Listen to that waltz. That was written for happy 
people, Philip. I adore this place. I suppose we 
shall find others that we like better, as time goes on, 
but I shall always think of this evening. It is the 
beginning of my task, too, Philip, with you — for 
you. What has really happened, dear? I can’t 
realise anything. I feel as though the gates of some 
great prison had been thrown wide-open, and every- 
thing there was to long for in life was just there, 
within reach, waiting. I am glad, so much gladder 
than I should have imagined possibie. It’s wonder- 
ful to have you again. I didn’t even feel that I 
missed you so much, but I know now what it was that 
made life so appalling. Tell me, am I still nice to 
look at? ” 


268 THE CINEMA MURDER 


“‘ Of course you are,” he assured her. “ Can’t you 
understand that by the way people notice you? ” 

She strummed upon the table with her fingers. 
Her whole body seemed to be moving to the music. 
She nodded several times. 

“I don’t want them to notice me, Philip,” she 
murmured. ‘ I want you to look just for a moment 
as though you thought me the only person in the 
world —as you did once, you know.” 

He did his best to be responsive, but he was not 
wholly successful. Nevertheless, she was tolerant 
with his shortcomings. They sat there until nearly 
three o’clock. It was she at last who rose reluc- 
tantly to her feet. 

“IT want to go whilst the memory of it all is won- 
derful,”? she declared. ‘Come. MHere’s a card with 
my address on. Drive me home now, please.” 

He paid his bill and they found a cab. She linked 
her arm through his, her head sank a little upon his 
shoulder. He made no movement. She waited for 
a moment, then she leaned back amongst the cush- 
ions. 

“ Philip,” she asked quietly, “has this Elizabeth 
Dalstan been letting you make love to her? ” | 

** Please don’t speak of Miss Dalstan like that,” he 
begged. 

“‘ Answer my question,” she insisted. 

“‘ Miss Dalstan has been very kind to me,” he ad- 
mitted slowly, “ wonderfully kind. If you really 
want to know, I do care for her.” 

“More than you did for me? ” 

‘Very much more,” he answered bravely, “ and 
in a different fashion.” 


THE CINEMA MURDER 269 


In the darkness of the cab it seemed to him that 
her face had grown whiter. Her arm remained within 
his but it clasped him no longer. Her body seemed 
to have become limp. Even her voice, firm though it 
was, seemed pitched in a different key. 

** Listen,” she said. ‘ You will have to forget 
Miss Dalstan. I have made up my mind what I 
want in life and I am going to have it. I shall draw 
my money to-morrow morning and afterwards I shall 
come straight to your rooms. Then we will talk. 
I want more than just that money. I am lonely. 
And do you know, Philip,. I believe that I must have 
cared for you all the time, and you — you must have 
cared for me a little or you would never have done 
that for my sake. You must and you shall care, 
Philip, because our time has come, and I want you, 
please — shall I have to say it, dear? —I want you 
to marry me.” 

He wrenched himself free from her. 

“That is quite out of the question, Beatrice,” he 
declared. 

She laughed at him mockingly. 

* Oh, don’t say that, Philip! You might tempt me 
to be brutal. You might tempt me to speak horribly 
plain words to you.” 

“Speak them and have done with it,” he told her 
roughly. “I might find a few, too.” 

“I am past hurting,” she replied, “ and I am not 
in the least afraid of anything you could say. You 
robbed me of the man who was bringing me to Amer- 
ica — who would have married me some day, I sup- 
pose. Well, you must pay, do you see, and in my 
way? I have told you the way I choose.” 


270 THE CINEMA MURDER 


“You want me to marry you?” he demanded — 
“simply marry you? You do not care whether I 
have any love for you or whether I loathe you now.” 

** You couldn’t loathe me, could you? ” she begged. 
“The thought of those long days we spent together — 
in our prison house would rise up and forbid it. 
Kiss me.” 

“© will not!” 

Her lips sought his, in vain. He pushed her away. 

* Don’t you understand? ” he exclaimed. ‘* There 
is another woman whom I have kissed — whom I am 
longing to kiss now.” 

‘* But we are old friends,” she pleaded, “and I 
am lonely. Kiss me how you like. Don’t be foolish.” 

He kissed her upon the cheek. She pulled down 
her veil. The cab.had stopped before the door of 
her hotel. 

“You are not to worry any more about ugly 
things, Philip,” she whispered, holding his hand for 
a moment as he rang the bell for her. ‘ You are 
safe, remember — quite safe. I’ve come to take care 
of you. You need it so badly. . . . Good night, 
dear!” 


CHAPTER XV 


Late though it was when Philip reached his rooms, 
he found on his writing table a message addressed 
to him from the telephone call office in the building. 
He tore it open: 


“ Kindly ring up Number 551 Avenue immediately you 
return, whatever the time.” 


He glanced at the clock, hesitated, and finally ap- 
proaching the instrument called up Elizabeth’s num- 
ber. For a few moments he waited. The silence in 
the streets outside seemed somehow to have become 
communicated to the line, the space between them 
emptied of all the jarring sounds of the day. It 
was across a deep gulf of silence that he heard at 
last her voice. } 

“Yes? Is that you, Philip? ” | 

“I am here,” he answered. “I am sorry it is so 
late.” , 

‘Have you only just come in?” 

“This moment.” 

“* Has that girl kept you out till now? ” she asked 
reprovingly. 

“TJ couldn’t help it,” he replied. “It was her 
first night over here. I took her to Churchill’s for 
supper.” 


272 THE CINEMA MURDER 


“Ts everything—all right with her? She 
doesn’t mean to make trouble? ” 

The unconscious irony of the question almost 
forced a smile to his lips. 

“I don’t think so,” he answered. “ She is thor- 
oughly excited at the idea of possessing the money. 
I believe she thought that Douglas would have 
drawn it all. She is going straight to the bank, 
early in the morning, to get hold of it.” 

What about the man Dane? ” 

** He has gone to Chicago. He won’t be back for 
several days.” 

There was a moment’s pause. 

“Have you anything to ask me? ” she enquired. 

* Nothing.” 

“IT have had the most extraordinary letter from 
Sylvanus. You and he have met.” 

“Yes,” he admitted. 

** Philip, we must make up our minds.” 

“You mean that you must make up your mind,” 
he answered gently. 

There was another silence. ‘Then she spoke a lit- 
tle abruptly. 

“‘ T wonder whether you really love me, Philip. .. . 
No! don’t, please — don’t try to answer such a fool- 
ish question. Go to bed and sleep well now. You’ve 
had a trying day. Good night, dear!” 

He had barely time to say good night before he 
heard the ring off. He set down the receiver. 
Somehow, there was a sensation of relief in having 
been, although indirectly, in touch with her. ‘The 
idea of the letter from Sylvanus Power affected 
him only hazily. The crowded events of the day 


THE CINEMA MURVER 273 


had somehow or other dulled his power of concen- 
trated thought. He felt a curious sense of passivity. 
He undressed without conscious effort, closed his 
eyes, and slept until he was awakened by the move- 
ments of the valet about the room. 


Philip was still seated over his breakfast, reading 
the paper and finishing his coffee, when the door was 
thrown suddenly open, and Beatrice entered tumultu- 
ously. She laughed at his air of blank surprise. 

“You booby!” she exclaimed. “I couldn’t help 
coming in to wish you good morning. I have just 
discovered that my hotel is quite close by here. 
Lucky, isn’t it, except that I am going to move. 
Good morning, Mr. Serious Face!” she went on, 
leaning towards him, her hands behind her, her lips 
held out invitingly. 

He set down his paper, kissed her on the cheek, 
and looked inside the coffeepot. 

** Have you had your breakfast? ” 

** Hours ago. I was too excited to sleep when I 
got to bed, and yet I feel so well. Philip, where’s 
Wall Street? Won’t you take me there? ” 

He shook his head. 

“I am expecting a visitor, and I have piles of 
work to do.” 

She made a grimace. 

“J know I shall be terrified when I march up to 
the counter of the bank and say I’ve come for twenty | 
thousand pounds!” 

“ You must transfer it to a current account,” he 
explained, “in your own name. Have you any 
papers with you — for identification, I mean? ” 


274 THE CINEMA MURDER 


She nodded. 

“ T’ve thought of all that. Dve a photograph and 
a passport and some letters. It isn’t that I’m really 
afraid, but I hate being alone, and you look so nice, 
Philip dear. I always loved you in blue serge, and 
I adore your eyeglass. You really have been clever 
in the small things you have done to change your 
appearance. Perhaps you are right not to come, 
though,” she went on, looking in the mirror. ‘“ These 
clothes are the best I could get at a minute’s notice. 
Mr. Dane was really quite nice, but he hadn’t the 
least idea how long it takes a woman to prepare for 
a journey. Never mind, you wait until I get back 
here this afternoon! I am going round to all the 
shops, and I am going to bring the clothes I buy 
away with me. Then I am going to lock myself in 
my room and change everything. I am going to 
have some of those funny little patent shoes, and silk 
stockings — and, oh, well, all sorts of things you 
wouldn’t understand about. And do try and cheer 
up before I get back, please, Philip. Twelve months 
ago you would have thought all this Paradise. Oh, 
I can’t stop a moment longer!” she wound up, throw- 
ing away the cigarette she had taken from the box 
and lit. ‘* I’m off now. And, Philip, don’t you dare 
to go out of these rooms until I come back! ” 

She turned towards the door — she was half-way 
there, in fact — when they were both aware of a ring 
at the bell. She stopped short and looked around 
enquiringly. 

“Who's that? ” she whispered, — 

Philip glanced at the clock. It was too early for 
#lizabeth, 


THE CINEMA MURDER 275 


“No idea,” he answered. “Come in.” 

The door opened and closed. Philip sat as though 
turned to stone. Beatrice remained in the middle of 
the room, her fingers clasping the back of a chair. 
Mr. Dane, hat in hand, had entered. 

““Good morning, Miss Wenderley!” he said. 
“Good morning, Mr. Ware!” 

Philip said nothing. He had a horrible feeling 
that this was some trap. Beatrice at first could 
only stare at the unexpected visitor. His sudden 
appearance had disconcerted her. 

“TI thought you were in Chicago, Mr. Dane!” she 
exclaimed at last. 

“My plans were altered at the last moment,” he 
told her. ‘ No, I won’t sit down, thanks,” he added, 
waving away the chair towards which Philip had 
pointed. “ As a matter of fact, I haven’t been out 
of New York. [I decided to wait and hear your news, 
Miss Wenderley.” 

* Well, you’re going to be disappointed, then,” she 
said bluntly. ‘I haven’t any.” 

Mr. Dane was politely incredulous. He was also 
a little stern, 

‘“ You mean,” he protested, “that you cannot 
identify this gentleman — that you don’t recognise 
him as Mr. Douglas Romilly? ” 

“J cannot identify him,” she repeated. “ He is 
not Mr. Douglas Romilly.” 

“J have brought you all this way, then, to con- 
front you with a stranger? ” 

“* Absolutely,” she insisted. ‘ It wasn’t my fault. 
I didn’t want to come.” 

Mr. Dane’s expression suddenly changed. His 


276 THE CINEMA MURDER 


hard knuckles were pressed upon the table, he leaned 
forward towards her. Even his tone was altered. 
His blandness had all vanished, his grey eyes were 
as hard as steel. 

“ A stranger!” he exclaimed derisively. “ Yet 
you come here to his rooms early in the evening, you 
stay here, you go to the theatre with him the same 
night, you go on to supper at Churchill’s and stay 
there till three o’clock in the morning, you are here 
with him again at nine o’clock — at breakfast time. 
A stranger, Miss Wenderley? Think again! A 
story like this might do for Scotland Yard. It won’t 
do for us out here.” 

She knew at once that she had fallen into a trap, 
but she was not wholly dismayed. ‘The position was 
one which they had-half anticipated. She told her- 
self that he was bluffing, that it was simply the out- 
burst of a disappointed man. On the whole, she be- 
haved extraordinarily well. 

“You brought me out here,” she said, “ to con- 
front me with this man — to identify him, if I could, 
as Mr. Douglas Romilly. Well, he isn’t Mr. Doug- 
las Romilly, and that’s all there is about it. As to 
my going out with him last evening, I can’t see that 
that’s any concern of any one. He was kind to me, 
cheered me up when he saw that I was disappointed ; 
I told him my whole story and that I didn’t know a 
soul in New York, and we became friends. 'That’s 
all there is about it.” 

“That so?” the detective observed, with quiet sar- 
casm. “ You seem to have a knack of making friends 
pretty easily, Miss Wenderley.” 

‘Tt is not your business if I have,” she snapped. 


THE CINEMA MURDER 277 


“Well, we'll pass that, then,” he conceded. “I 
haven’t quite finished with you yet, though. There 
are just one or two more points I am going to put 
before you— and this gentleman who is not Mr. 
Douglas Romilly,” he added, with a little bow to 
Philip. “ The first is this. There is one fact which 
we can all three take for granted, because I know 
it — I can prove it a hundred times over — and you 
both know it; and that is that the Mr. Merton Ware 
of to-day travelled from Liverpool on the Elletania 
as Mr. Douglas Romilly, occupied a room at the 
Waldorf Astoria Hotel as Mr. Douglas Romilly, and 
absconded from there, leaving his luggage and his 
identity behind him, to blossom out in an attic of the 
Monmouth tenement house as Mr. Merton Ware, a 
young writer of plays. Now I don’t think,” Mr. 
Dane went on, leaning a little further over the table, 
** that the Mr. Douglas Romilly who has disappeared 
was ever capable of writing a play. I don’t think he 
was a man of talent at all. I don’t think he could 
have written, for instance, ‘The House of Shams.’ 
Let us, however, leave the subject of Douglas Romilly 
fora moment. Let us go a little further back — to 
Detton Magna, let us say. Curiously enough, there 
was another young man who disappeared from that 
little Derbyshire village about the same time, who 
has never been heard of since. His name, too, was 
Romilly. I gathered, during the course of my recent 
enquiries, that he was a poor relation, a cousin of 
Mr. Douglas Romilly.” 

“ He was drowned in the canal,”’ Beatrice faltered. 
*¢ His body has been found.” 

“ A body has been found,” Mr. Dane corrected, 


278 THE CINEMA MURDER 


*‘ but it was in an unrecognisable state. It has been 
presumed to be the body of Philip Romilly, the poor 
relation, a starving young art teacher in London 
with literary aspirations — but I hold that that pre- 
sumption is a mistake. I believe,” the detective went 
on, his eyes fastened upon Philip, his voice a little 
raised, “ that it was the body of Douglas Romilly, 
the shoe manufacturer, which was fished out from the 
canal, and that you, sir, are Mr. Philip Romilly, late 
art-school teacher of Kensington, who murdered 
Douglas Romilly on the banks of the canal, stole his 
money and pocketbook, assumed his identity in Liver- 
pool and on the Elletania, and became what sie are 
now — Mr. Merton Ware.” 

Philip threw away the cigarette which he had been 
smoking, and, leaning over the box, carefully selected 
another. He tapped it against the table and lit it. 

“Mr. Dane,” he said coolly, “I shall always be 
grateful to you for your visit this morning, for you 
have given me what is the most difficult thing m the 
whole world to stumble up against — an excellent 
idea for a new play. Apart from that, you seem, 
for so intelligent a man, to have wasted a good deal 
of your time and to have come, what we should call 
in English, a cropper. I will take you into my confi- 
dence so far as to admit that I am not particularly 
anxious to disclose my private history, but if ever 
the necessity should arise I shall do so without hesi- 
tation. Until that time comes, you must forgive me 
if I choose to preserve a certain reticence as to my 
antecedents.”’ 

Mr. Dane, in the moment’s breathless silence which 
followed, acknowledged to himself the perpetration 


THE CINEMA MURDER 279 


of a rare mistake. He had selected Philip to bear 
the brunt of his attack, believing him to be possessed 
of the weaker nerve. Beatrice, who at the end of his 
last speech had sunk into a chair, white and terrified, 
an easy victim, had rallied now, inspired by Philip’s 
composure. 

“You deny, then, that you are Mr. Philip Ro- 
milly? ” the detective asked. 

**{ never heard of the fellow in my life,” Philip re- 
plied pleasantly, “but don’t go, Mr. Dane. You 
can’t imagine how interesting this is to me. You 
have sent me a most charming acquaintance,” he 
added, bowing to Beatrice, “ and you have provided 
me with what I can assure you is almost pathetically 
scarce in these days — a new and very dramatic idea. 
Take a seat, won’t you, and chat with us a little 
longer? ‘Tell us how you came to think of all this? 
I have always held that the workings of a criminolo- 
gist’s brain must be one of the most interesting 
studies in life.” 

Mr. Dane smiled enigmatically. 

** Ah!” he protested, “ you mustn’t ask me to dis- 
close all my secrets.” 

“ You wouldn’t care to tell us a little about your 
future intentions? ” Philip enquired. 

Mr. Dane shook his head. 

“Tt is very kind of you, Mr. Merton Ware,” he 
confessed, “ to let me down so gently. We all make 
mistakes, of course. As to my future intentions, 
well, I am not quite sure about them. You see, this 
isn’t really my job at all. It isn’t up to me to hunt 
out English criminals, so long as they behave them- 
selves in this city. If an extradition order or any- 


280 THE CINEMA MURDER 


thing of that sort came my way, it would, of course, 
be different.” 

“Why not lay this interesting theory of yours 
before the authorities at Scotland Yard?” Philip 
suggested. “I am sure they would listen with m- 
mense interest to any report from you.” 

“ That’s some idea, certainly,” the detective ad- 
mitted, taking up his hat from the table. ‘* For the 
present [ll wish you both good morning — or shall 
I say au revoir? ” 

“‘ We may look for the pleasure of another visit 
from you, then? ” Philip enquired politely. 

The detective faced them from the doorway. 

“Sir,” he said to Philip, “I admire your nerve, 
and I admire the nerve of your old sweetheart, Miss 
Wenderley. I am_.afraid I cannot promise you, how- 
ever, that this will be my last visit.” 

The door closed behind him. They heard the 
shrill summons of the bell, the arrival of the lift, the 
clanging of the iron gate, and its subsequent descent. 
Then Beatrice turned her head. Philip was still 
smoking serenely, standing with his back to the man- 
telpiece, his hands in his pockets. She rose and 
threw her arms around him. 

“ Philip!” she cried. ‘“ Why, you are wonderful! 
You are marvellous! You make me ashamed. It 
was only for a moment that I lost my nerve, and you 
saved us. Oh, what idiots we were! Of course he 
meant to watch — that’s why he told me he was going 
to Chicago. ‘The beast!” 

‘“‘ He seems to have got hold of the idea all right, 
doesn’t he? ” Philip muttered. 

“ Pooh!” she exclaimed encouragingly. “I know 


THE CINEMA MURDER - 281 


a little about the law — so do you. He hasn’t any 
proof — he never can have any proof. No one will 
ever be able to swear that the body which they picked 
out of the canal was the body of Douglas Romilly. 
There wasn’t a soul who saw you do it. I am the 
only person in the world who could supply the mo- 
tive, and I—TI shall never be any use to them. 
Don’t you see, Philip? . . . I shall be your wife! A 
wife can’t give evidence against her husband! You'll 
be safe, dear — quite safe.” 

He withdrew a little from her embrace. 

. © Beatrice,” he reminded her, “ there is another 
tragedy beyond the one with which Dane threatens 
us. Ido not wish to marry you.” 

She suddenly blazed up. 

** Because —? ” 

_ “Not because of any reason in the world,” he in- 
terrupted, “ except that I love Elizabeth Dalstan.” 

* Does she want to marry you?” 

He was suddenly an altered person. Some of his 
confidence seemed to desert him. He shook his head 
doubtfully. 

“JT am not sure. Sometimes I think that she 
would. Sometimes I fancy that it is only a great 
kindness of heart, an immense sympathy, a kind of 
protective sympathy, which has made her so good 
to me.” | 

She looked at herself steadily for a moment in the 
mirror. Then she pulled down her veil. 

“Philip,” she said, “we find out the truth when 
we are up against things like this. I used to think 
I could live alone. I can’t. Whatever you may 
think of me, I was fond of Douglas. It wasn’t only 


282 THE CINEMA MURDER 


for the sake of the money and the comfort. He was 
kind, and in his way he understood. And then, you 
know, misery didn’t agree with you. You were often, 
even in those few hours we spent together, very hard 
and cold. Anyway,” she added, with a little tighten- 
ing of the lips, “I am going to get my money now. 
No one can stop that. You stay here and think it 
over. It would be better to marry me, Philip, and 
be safe, than to have the fear of that man Dane 
always before you. And wait — wait till you see me 
when I come back! ” she went on, her spirits rapidly 
rising as she moved towards the door. “ You'll 
change your mind then, Philip. You were always so 
impressionable, weren’t you? A little touch of col- 
our, the perfume of flowers, a single soft word spoken 
at the right moment — anything that took your 
fancy made such a difference. Well — just wait till 
I come back!” 

She closed the door. Philip heard her descend in 
the lift. He moved to the window and watched for 
her on the pavement. She appeared there in a mo- 
ment or two and waited whilst the boy whistled for a 
taxicab, her face expectantly upraised, one hand 
resting lightly on her bosom, just over the spot where 
her pocketbook lay. 


\ 


CHAPTER XVI 


Philip was still gazing into vacancy and smoking 
cigarettes when Elizabeth arrived. She seemed con- 
scious at once of the disturbed atmosphere. His 
hands, which she held firmly in hers, were as cold as 
ice. 

“Ts that girl going to be troublesome?” she de- 
manded anxiously. 

“Not in the way we feared,” he replied. “ All 
the same, the plot has thickened so far as I am con- 
cerned. ‘That fellow Dane has been here.” 

“Go on,” she begged. 

“* He laid a trap for us, and we fell into it like the 
veriest simpletons. He let Beatrice think that he 
had gone to Chicago. Of course, he did nothing of 
the sort. He turned her loose to come to me, and 
he had us watched. He knew that we spent last 
evening together as old friends. She was here in 
my rooms this morning when he arrived.” 

* Oh, Philp, Philip!” she murmured. “ Well, 
what does he suspect?” __ 

“The truth! He accused me to my face of being 
Philip Romilly. Beatrice did her best but, you see, 
the position was a little absurd. She denied strenu- 
ously that she had ever seen me before, that I was 
anything but a stranger to her. In the face of last 
evening, and his finding her here this morning, it 
didn’t sound convincing.” 


284 THE CINEMA MURDER 


‘What is Dane going to do? ” 

“Heaven knows! It isn’t his affair, really. If 
there were any charge against me — well, you see, 
there’d have to be an extradition order. I should 
think he will probably lay the facts before Scotland 
Yard and let them do what they choose.” 

She made him sit down and drew a low chair her- 
self to his side. She held his hand in hers. 

“Philip,” she said soothingly, “they can’t pos- 
sibly prove anything.” 

“They can prove,” he pointed out, “ that I was in 
Detton Magna that afternoon. I don’t think any 
one except Beatrice saw me start along the canal 
path, but they can prove that I knew all about Doug- 
las Romilly’s disappearance, because I travelled to 
America under his.name and with his ticket, and de- 
liberately personated him.” 

“They can prove all that,” she agreed, “ but they 
can’t prove the crime itself. Beatrice is the only 
person who could do that.” 

“She proposes to marry me,” he announced 
grimly. “ That would prevent her giving evidence 
at all.” 

Elizabeth suddenly threw her arms around his neck 
and held her cheek to his. 

“She shan’t marry you!” she declared. “I 
want you myself!” 

¢ Elizabeth!” 

“Yes, I have made up my mind, Philip. It is no 
use. The other things are fascinating and splendid 
in their way, but they don’t count, they don’t last. 
They’re tinsel, dear, and I don’t want tinsel — I want 
the gold. We’ll face this bravely, wherever it leads, 


THE CINEMA MURDER 285 


however far, however deep down, and then we'll start 
again.” 

*¢ You know what this means, Elizabeth? ” he fal- 
tered. ‘“ That man Power —” 

She brushed the thought away. 

“Tknow. He’ll close the theatre. He’ll do all he 
can to harm us. That doesn’t matter. The play is 
ours. That’s worth a fortune. And the new one 

coming — why, it’s wonderful, Philip. We don’t 
want wealth. Your brain and my art can win us all 
that we desire in life. We shall have something 
sweeter than anything which Sylvanus Power’s mil- 
laons could buy. We shall have our love — your love 
for me, dear, and mine for you.” 

He felt her tears upon his cheek, her lips pressed 
to his. He held her there, but although his heart was 
beating with renewed hope, he said nothing for a 
time. When she stepped back to look at his face, 
however, the change was already there. 

“You are glad, Philip!” she cried. ‘ You are 
happy —I can see it! You didn’t ever care really 
for that girl, did you? ” 

He almost laughed. 

“Not like this!” he answered eeadentiss he 
never even for a single moment pretended te care in 
-a great way. We were just companions in misfor- 
tune. The madness that came over me that day had 
been growing in my brain for years. I hated Doug- 
las Romilly. I had every reason to hate him. And 
then, after all he had robbed me of — my one ¢om- 
panion —” 

She stopped him. 

“ T know —I know,” she murmured. ‘“ You need 


286 THE CINEMA MURDER 


never try to explain anything to me. I know every- 
thing, I understand, I sympathise.” 

A revulsion of feeling had suddenly chilled him. 
He held her to him none the less tightly but there was 
a ring of despair in his tone. 

*“* Elizabeth, think what it may mean!” he mut- 
tered. ‘‘ How can I drag you through it all? A 
trial, perhaps, the suspense, and all the time that 
guilty knowledge behind — yours and mine!” - 

“Pooh!” she exclaimed lightly. “I am not a 
sentimentalist. I am a woman in love.” 

* But, Elizabeth, I am guilty!” he groaned. 
“ That’s the horror of it! I'd take the risk if I were 
an innocent man —TId risk everything. But I am 
afraid to stand there and know that every word they 
say against me will be true, and every word of the 
men who speak in my defence will be false. Can’t 
you realise the black, abominable horror of it? I 
couldn’t drag you into such a plight, Elizabeth! I 
was weak to think of it. I couldn’t!” 

** You'll drag me nowhere,” she answered, holding 
him tightly. ‘* Where I go my feet will lead me, and 
my love for you. You can’t help that. We'll play 
the game — play it magnificently, Philip. My faith 
in you will count for something.” 

** But, dear,” he protested, “don’t you see? Ti 
the case ever comes into court, even if I get off, 
every one will know that it is through a techni- 
cality. The evidence is too strong. Half the world 
at least will believe me guilty.” 

“Tt shan’t come into court,” she proclaimed con- 
fidently. “I shall talk to Dane. I have some in- 
fluence with the police authorities here. I shall point 


THE CINEMA MURDER 287 


out how ridiculous it all is. What’s the use of formu- 
lating a charge that they can never, never prove? ” 

** Unless,’ he reminded her hesitatingly, ‘ Bea- 
trice —” 

“Beatrice! You’re not afraid of her? ” 

“I am afraid of no one or anything,” he declared, 
“when you are here! But Beatrice has been behav- 
ing strangely ever since she arrived. She has a sud- 
den fancy for remembering that in a sense we were 
once engaged.” 

“ Beatrice,” Elizabeth announced, “ must be satis- 
fied with her twenty thousand pounds. I know what 
you are trying to say — she wants you. She shan’t 
have you, Philip! We’ll find her some one else. 
We'll be kind to her —I don’t mind that Very soon 
we'll find her plenty of friends. But as for you, 
Philip — well, she just shan’t have you, and that’s 
all there is about it.” 

He took her suddenly into his arms. In that mo- 
ment he was the lover she had craved for — strong, 
passionate, and reckless. 

* All the love that my heart has ever known,” he 
cried, “is yours, Elizabeth! Every thought and 
every hope is yours. You are my life. You saved 
me — you made me what I am. The play is yours, 
my brain is yours, there isn’t a thought or a dream 
or a wish that isn’t for you — of you — yours!” 

He kissed her as he had never dreamed of kissing 
any woman. It was the one supreme moment of their 
life and their love. Time passed uncounted... . 

Then interruption came, suddenly and tragically. 
Without knock or ring, the door was flung open and 
slammed again. Beatrice stood there, still in her 


288 THE CINEMA MURDER 


shabby clothes, her veil pushed back, gloveless and 
breathless. Her clenched hand flew out towards 
Philip as though she would have struck him. 

“You lar!” she shrieked. ‘“ You’ve had my 
money! You’vespentit! You’vestolenit! Thief! 
Murderer! ” 

She paused, struggling for breath, tore her hat 
from her head and threw it on the table. Her face 
was like the face of a virago, her eyes blazed, her 
cheeks were as pale as death save for one hectic spot 
of colour. 

‘You are talking nonsense, Beatrice,” he expos- 

tulated. 
“Don’t lie to me!” she shouted. You can lie 
in the dock when you stand there and tell them you 
never murdered Douglas Romilly! That makes you 
cringe, doesn’t it? I don’t want to make a scene, 
but the woman you’re in love with had better hear 
what I have to say. Are you going to give me back 
my money, Philip? ” 

“¢ As I stand here,” he declared solemnly, “ I have 
not touched that money or been near the bank where 
it was deposited. I swear it. Every penny I have 
spent since I moved into this apartment, I have spent 
from my earnings. My own royalties come to over 
a hundred pounds a week — more than sufficient to 
keep me in luxury. I never meant to touch that 
money. J have not touched it.” 

His words carried conviction with them. She stood 
there for several seconds, absolutely rigid, her eyes 
growing larger and rounder, her lips a little parted. 
Bewilderment was now struggling with her passion. 

“Who in God’s name, then,” she asked hoarsely, 


THE CINEMA MURDER 289 


* could have known about the money and forged his 
signature! I tell you that I’ve seen it with my own 
eyes, a few minutes ago, in the bank. ‘They showed 
me into a little cupboard, a place without any roof, 
and laid it there before me on the desk — his cheque 
and signature for the whole amount.” 

Philip looked at her earnestly, oppressed by a 
sense of coming trouble. 

* Beatrice,”’ he said, “I wouldn’t deceive you. I 
should be a fool to try, shouldn’t I? I can only re- 
peat what I have said. I have never been near the 
bank. I have never touched that money.” 

She shivered a little where she stood. It was ob- 
vious that she was convinced, but her sense of per- 
sonal injustice remained unabated. 

“ Then there is some one else,”? she declared, * who 
knows everything — some one else, my man,” she 
added, leaning across the table and shaking her head 
with a sudden fierceness, “ who can step into the wit- 
ness box and tell the truth abuut you. You must 
find out who it is. You must find out who has stolen 
that money and get it back. I tell you I won’t have 
everything snatched away from me like this!” she 
cried, her voice breaking hysterically. “I won’t be 
robbed of life and happiness and everything that 
counts! I want my money. Are you going to get 
it back for me?” | 

“ Beatrice, don’t be absurd,” he protested. “ You 
know very well that I can’t do that. I am not ina 
position to go about making enquiries. I shall be 
watched from now, day and night, if nothing worse 
happens. A single step on my part in that direction 
would mean disaster.” 


290 THE CINEMA MURDER 


“Then take me straight to the town hall, or the 
registry office, or wherever you go here, and marry 
me,” she demanded. “A hundred pounds a week 
royalty, eh? Well, that’s good enough. Il marry 
you, Philip—do you hear ?—at once. That’ll 
save your skin if it won’t get me back my twenty 
thousand pounds. You needn’t flatter yourself 
overmuch, either. Vd rather have had Douglas. 
He’s more of a man than you, after all. You are too 
self-conscious. You think about yourself too much. 
You’re too intellectual, too. I don’t want those 
things. I want to live! Any way, you’ve got to 
marry me— to-day. Now give me some money, do 
you hear? ” | 

He took out his pocketbook and threw it towards 
her. She smoothed out the wad of notes which 
it contained and counted them with glistening — 
eyes. | 

“* Well, there’s enough here for a start,” she de- 
cided, slipping them into her bosom. ‘* No one shall 
rob me of these before I get to the shops. Better 
come with me, Philip. I’m not going to leave you 
alone with her.” 

Elizabeth would have intervened, but Philip laid 
his hand upon her arm, 

“ Beatrice,” he said sternly, “ you are a little be- 
side yourself. Listen. I don’t understand what has 
happened. I must think aboutit. Apparently that 
twenty thousand pounds has gone, but so far as re- 
gards money I recognise your claim. You shall have 
half my earnings. ll write more. Ill make it up 
somehow. But for the rest, this morning has cleared 
away many misunderstandings. Let this be the last 


THE CINEMA MURDER 291 


word. Miss Dalstan has promised to be my wife. 
She is the only woman I could ever love.” 

“Then you'll have to marry me without loving 
me,” Beatrice declared thickly. “I won’t be left 
alone in this beastly city! I want some one to take 
care of me. I am getting frightened. It’s uncanny 
—horrible! I—oh! I am so miserable — so mis- 
erable! ” : 

She sank into a chair and fell forward acrcess the 
table, sobbing hysterically. | 

“I hate every one!” she moaned. ‘“ Philip, why 
can’t you be kind to me! Why doesn’t some one 
care!” 


CHAPTER XVII 


And, after all, nothing happened. Dane’s barely 
veiled threats seemed to vanish like the man himself 
into thin air. Beatrice, after the breakdown of her 
one passionate outburst, had become wonderfully 
meek and tractable. Sylvanus Power, who had re- 
ceived from Elizabeth the message for which he had 
waited, showed no sign either of disappointment or 
anger. After the storm which had seemed to be 
breaking in upon him from every quarter, the days 
which followed possessed for Philip almost the calm 
of an Indian summer. He had found something in 
life at last stronger than his turbulent fears. His 
whole nature was engrossed by one great atmosphere 
of deep and wonderful affection. He spent a part 
of every day with Elizabeth, and the remainder of 
his time was completely engrossed by the work over 
which she, too, the presiding genius, pored eagerly. 
Together they humoured many of Beatrice’s whims, 
treating her very much as an unexpected protégée, a 
position with which she seemed entirely content. She 
made friends with the utmost facility. She wore new 
clothes with frank and obvious joy. She preened 
herself before the looking-glass of life, developed a 
capacity for living and enjoying herself which, un- 
der the circumstances, was nothing less than remark- 
able. 

And then came the climax of Philip’s new-found 


THE CINEMA MURDER 203 


happiness. His earnest protests had long since been 
overruled, and certainly no one could have accused 
him of posing for a single moment as the reluctant 
bridegroom. The happiness which shone from their 
two faces seemed to brighten the strangely uneccle- 
siastical looking apartment, in which a cheerful and 
exceedingly pleasant looking American divine com- 
pleted the formalities of their marriage. It was a 
queer little company who hurried back to Elizabeth’s 
room for tea — Elizabeth and Philip themselves, and 
Martha Grimes and Beatrice sharing the attentions 
of Noel Bridges. For an event of such stupendous 
importance, it was amazing how perfectly matter-of- 
fact the two persons chiefly concerned were. There 
was only one moment, just before they started for 
the theatre, when Elizabeth betrayed the slightest 
signs of uneasiness. 

“ T sent a telegram, Philip,” she said, * to Sylvanus 
Power. I thought I had better. This is his an- 
swer.” 

Philip read the few typewritten words on the lit- 
tle slip of paper: 


* You will hear from me within twenty-four hours.” 


Philip frowned a little as he handed it back. It 
- was dated from Washington. 

‘J think,” Elizabeth faltered, “ he might have sent 
his good wishes, at any rate.” 

Philip laughed confidently. 

“We have nothing to fear,” he declared confi- 
dently, “from Sylvanus Power.” 

“Nor from any one else in the world,” Elizabeth 
murmured fervently. 


204 THE CINEMA MURDER 


Then followed the wonderful evening. Philip 
found Beatrice alone in the stage box when he re- 
turned from taking Elizabeth to her dressing-room. 

*“ Where’s Martha?” he asked. 

*“* Faithless,” Beatrice replied. ‘‘She is in the 
stalls down there with a young man from the box 
office. She said you’d understand.” 

“A serious affair? ” Philip ventured. 

Beatrice nodded. 

“They are engaged. I had tea with them yester- 
day.” 7 
‘‘ We shall have to do something for you, Beatrice, 
soon,” he remarked cheerfully. 

A very rare gravity settled for a moment upon her 
face. 

“I wonder, Philip,” she said simply. “ I thought, 
a little time ago, it would be easy enough to care for 
the right sort of person. Perhaps I am not really 
quite so rotten as I thought I was. Here comes 
Elizabeth. Let’s watch her.” 

They both leaned a little forward in the box, 
Philip in a state of beatific wonder, which turned 
soon to amazement when, at Elizabeth’s first appear- 
ance, the house suddenly rose, and a torrent of ap- 
plause broke out from the floor to the ceiling. Eliza- 
beth for a moment seemed dumbfounded. The fact 
that the news of what had happened that afternoon 
could so soon have become public property had not 
occurred to either her or Philip. Then a sudden 
smile of comprehension broke across her face. With 
understanding, however, came a momentary embar- 
rassment. She looked a little pathetically at the 
great audience, then laughed and glanced at Philip, 


a - 4 ce 
Le. 


THE CINEMA MURDER 295 


seated now well back in the box. Many of them fol- 
lowed her gaze, and the applause broke out again. 
Then there was silence. She paused before she 
spoke the first words of her part. 

“Thank you so much,” she said quietly. 

It was a queer little episode. Beatrice gripped 
Philip’s hand as she drew her chair back to his. 
There were tears in her eyes. 

** How they love her, these people! And fancy 
their knowing about it, Philip, already! You ought 
to have shown yourself as the happy bridegroom. 
They were all looking up here. I wonder why men 
are soshy. I’m glad I have my new frock on. . 
Fancy being married only a few hours ago! Tell 
me how you are feeling, can’t you, Philip? You sit 
there looking like a sphinx. You are happy, aren’t 
you?” 

“ Happier, I think, than any man has a right to 
be,” he answered, his eyes watching Elizabeth’s every 
movement. 

As the play proceeded, his silence only deepened. 
He went behind at the end of each act and spent a 
few stolen moments with Elizabeth. Life was a mar- 
vellous thing, indeed. Every pulse and nerve in his 
_body was tingling with happiness. And yet, as he 
lingered for a moment in the vestibule of the theatre, 
before going back to his box at the commencement 
of the last act, he felt once more that terrible 
wave of Eesiecion, the ghostly uprising of his old- 
terrors even in this supreme moment. He looked 
down from the panorama of flaring sky-signs into 
the faces of the passers-by along the crowded pave- 
ment. He had a sudden fancy that Dane was there, 


296 THE CINEMA MURDER 


watching. His heart beat fiercely as he stood, al- 
most transfixed, scanning eagerly every strange face. 
Then the bell rang behind him. He set his teeth and 
turned away. In less than half an hour the play 
would be over. They would be on their way home. 

He found the box door open and the box itself, 
to his surprise, empty. There was no sign anywhere 
of Beatrice. He waited for a little time. Then he 
rang the bell for the attendant but could hear no 
news of her. His uneasiness increased as the cur- 
tain at last fell and she had not returned. He hur- . 
ried round to the back, but Elizabeth, when he told 
her, only smiled. 

*‘ Why, there’s nothing to worry about, dear,” she 
said. ‘* Beatrice can take care of herself. Perhaps 
she thought it more tactful to hurry on home to- 
night. She is really just as kind-hearted as she can 
be, you know, Philip, underneath all that pent-up, 
passionate desire for just a small share of the good 
things of life. She has wasted so much of herself 
in longings. Poor child! I sometimes wonder that 
she is as level-headed as she seems to be. Now I 
am ready. ” 

They passed down the corridor amidst a little 
chorus of good nights, and stepped into the auto- 
mobile which was waiting. As it glided off she sud- 
denly came closer to him. 

*‘ Philip,” she whispered, “ it’s true, isn’t it? Put 
your arms around me. You are driving me home — 
say it’s true! ” 

Elizabeth sat up presently, a little dazed. Her 
fingers were still gripping Philip’s almost fiercely. 
The automobile had stopped. 


THE CINEMA MURDER 297 


“J haven’t the least idea where we are,” she mur- 
mured. 

* And I forgot to tell you,” he laughed, as he 
helped her out. ‘‘I took the suite below mine by 
the week. There are two or three rooms, and an 
extra one for Beatrice. Of course, it’s small, but 
then with this London idea before us —” 

“Such extravagance!” she interrupted. “ Your 
own rooms would have done quite nicely, only it is 
a luxury to have a place for Phoebe. I hope Bea- 
trice won’t have gone to bed.” | 

“T am sure she won’t,” he replied. ‘‘ She has done 
all the arranging for me — she and Phoebe together.” 

They crossed the pavement and entered the lift. 
The attendant grinned broadly as he stopped at the 
eighth floor, and held out his hand for the tip for 
which Philip had been fumbling. The door of the 
suite was opened before they could reach the bell. 
Elizabeth’s maid, Phoebe, came forward to take her 
mistress’ cloak, and the floor valet was there to re- 
lieve Philip of his overcoat. A waiter was hovering 
in the background. 

‘Supper is served in the dining room, sir,” he 
announced. “ Shall I open the wine? ” 

Philip nodded and showed Elizabeth over the little 
flat, finally ushering her into the small, round dining 
room. | 

“It’s perfectly delightful,” she declared, “ but we 
don’t need nearly so much room, Philip. What a 
dear little dining table and what a delicious supper! 
Everything I like best in the world, from paté de foie 
gras to cold asparagus. You are a dear.” 

The waiter disappeared with a little bow. ‘They 


298 THE CINEMA MURDER 


were alone at last. She held his hands tightly. She 
was trembling. The forced composure of the last 
few minutes seemed to have left her. 

“T am silly,” she faltered, ‘ but the servants and 
everything — they won’t come back, will they? ” 

He laughed as he patted her hand. 

‘We shan’t see another soul, dear,” he assured 
her. 

She laid her cheek against his. 

“How hot your face feels,” she exclaimed. 
** Throw open the window, do. I shan’t feel it.” 

He obeyed her at once. ‘The roar of the city, all 
its harshness muffled, came to them in a sombre, al- 
most melodious undernote. She rested her hands 
upon his shoulder. 

“ What children we are!” she murmured. ‘ Now 
it’s you who are trembling! Sit down, please. 
You’ve been so brave these last few days.” 

“It was just for a moment,” he told her. “It 
’ seems too wonderful. I had a sudden impulse of ter- 
ror lest it should all be snatched away.” 

She laughed easily. 

“* . don’t think there’s any fear of that, dear,” she 
said. ‘* Perhaps —” 

There was a little knock at the door. Philip, who 
had been holding Elizabeth’s chair, stood as though 
transfixed. Elizabeth gripped at the side of the 
table. It was some few seconds before either of them 
spoke. | 

‘It’s perhaps — Beatrice,” Elizabeth faltered. 

The knock was repeated. Philip drew a little 
breath. 

“ Come in,” he invited. 


THE CINEMA MURDER 299 


The door opened slowly towards them and closed 
again. It was Mr. Dane who had entered. From 
outside they caught a momentary glimpse of another 
man, waiting. Mr. Dane took off his hat. For a 
man with so expressionless a countenance, he was 
looking considerably perturbed. 

“Miss Dalstan,” he said, “I am very sorry, 
believe me, to intrude. I only heard of your mar- 
riage an hour ago. I wish I could have prevented 
ay 

“Prevented it?” Elizabeth repeated. ‘‘ What do 
you mean?” 

“J think that Mr. Philip Romilly could explain,” 
Dane continued, turning towards Philip. “I am 
sorry, but I have received an imperative cable from 
Scotland Yard, and it is my duty to arrest you, 
Philip Romilly, and to hold you, pending the arrival 
of a special police mission from England. I am 
bound to take note of anything you may say, so I 
beg of you not to ask me any particulars as to the 
charge.” 

The colour slowly faded from Elizabeth’s cheeks. 
She had risen to her feet and was gripping the man- 
telpiece for support. Philip, however, was perfectly 
calm. He poured out a glass of water and held it 
to her lips. | 

“ Drink this, dear,” he begged, “and don’t be 
alarmed. It sounds very terrible, but believe me 
there is nothing to be feared.” 

He swung suddenly round to Dane. His voice 
shook with passion. 

“ You’ve kept me under observation,” he cried, 
“all this time. I haven’t attempted to escape. I 


300 THE CINEMA MURDER 


haven’t moved from New York. I haven’t the slight- 
est intention of deing so until this thing is cleared 
up. Can’t you take my parole? Can’t you leave 
me alone until they come from England? ” 

Mr. Dane shook his head slowly. He was a hard 
man, but there was an unaccustomed look of distress 
in his face. 

“Sorry, Mr. Romilly,” he said regretfully. “I 
did suggest something of the sort, but they wouldn’t 
hear of it at headquarters. If we let you slip through 
our fingers, we should never hear the last of it from 
London.” 

Then there came another and a still more unex- 
pected interruption. From outside they heard Bea- 
trice’s voice raised in excitement. Mr. Dane stood 
on one side as the door was thrown open. Beatrice 
suddenly flung herself into the room, dragging after 
her a man who was almost breathless. 

“I say, Beatrice, steady!” the latter began good- 
naturedly. 

There followed the most wonderful silence in the 
world, a silence which was filled with throbbing, in- 
describable emotions, a silence which meant some- 
thing different for every one of them. Beatrice, 
gripping her captive by the wrist, was looking around, 
striving to understand. | Elizabeth was filled with 
blank wonder. Mr. Dane was puzzled. But Philip, 
who a moment before had seemed perfectly composed, 
was the one who seemed torn by indescribable, by hor- 
rible emotions. He was livid almost to the lips. His 
hands were stretched out as though to keep from him 
some awful and ghastly vision. His eyes, filled with 
the anguished light of supreme terror, were fastened 


THE CINEMA MURDER 301 


- upon the newcomer. His lips shook as he tried to 
_ speak. 

“Take him away!” he shrieked. ‘‘ Oh, my God!” 

Beatrice, more coherent than any of them, scoffed 
at him. 

“Don’t be.a fool!” she cried. ‘Take him away, 
indeed! He’s the most wonderful thing that ever 
happened. He’s the one man in life you want to see! 
So you’ve come for him, eh? ” she went on, turning 
almost like a wild-cat on Dane. ‘‘ You beast! You 
chose to-night, did you? Now get on with it, then, 
and I'll give you the surprise of your life. What 
are you here for? ” 

“JT am here to arrest that man, Philip Romilly, 
for the murder of his cousin, Douglas Romilly, Miss 
Wenderley,” Dane announced gravely. “I am 
sorry.” 

Beatrice threw her head back and laughed hys- 
terically. 

“You'll never write a play like it, Philip!” she 
exclaimed. ‘“‘ There never was anything like it be- 
fore. Now, Mr. Dane, what is it you say in America 
when you want to introduce anybody? — shake hands 
with Mr. Douglas Romilly — that’s it. Shake hands 
with the dead man here and then get on with your ar- 
resting. He must be dead if you say so, but he 
doesn’t look it, does he?” . 

Philip’s face had become a more natural colour. 
His eyes had never left the other man’s. He swayed 
a little on his feet and his voice seemed to him to 
come from a long way off. 

“Douglas! It isn’t you, Douglas! ... It isn’t 
you really?” 


302 THE CINEMA MURDER 


‘I wish you'd all leave off staring at me as though 
I were a ghost,” the other man answered, almost pet- 
tishly. ‘‘ I’m Douglas Romilly, right enough. You 
needn’t look in such a blue funk, Philip,” he went on, 
his fingers mechanically rearranging his collar and 
tie, which Beatrice had disarranged. “I served you 
a beastly trick and you went for me. I should have 
done the same if I’d been in your place. On the other 
hand, I rather turned the tables on you by keeping 
quiet. Perhaps it’s up to me to explain.” 

Elizabeth, feeling her way by the mantelpiece, came 
to Philip’s side. His arm supported her, holding her 
as though in a vise. 

“Ts that your cousin?” she whispered hoarsely. 
“Ts that Douglas Romilly? Is he alive, after 
all? ” 

Philip had no words, but his face spoke for him. 
Then they both turned to listen. ‘The newcomer had 
dragged a chair towards him and was leaning over the 
back of it. He addressed Philip. 

“We met, as you know, on the canal path that 
beastly afternoon,” he began. “I was jolly well 
ashamed of myself for having made love to Beatrice, 
and all the rest of it, and you were mad with rage. 
We had a sort of tussle and you threw me into the 
canal. It was a nasty dark spot just underneath 
the bridge. I expect I was stunned for a moment, 
but it was only for a moment. I came to long before 
I choked, and when I remembered your grip upon my 
throat, I decided I was safer where I was. I could 
swim like a duck, you know, and though it was filthy 
water I took a long dive. When I came up again — 
gad, what disgusting water it was! — you were tear- 


THE CINEMA MURDER 303 


ing off like a creature possessed. That’s the true 
history of our little fracas.” 

“But afterwards?” Philip asked wonderingly. 
“What happened afterwards? ” 

** You just tell them all about it,” Beatrice ordered 
him sternly. ‘ Go on, Douglas.” 

** Well, you see,” Douglas Romilly continued, “ I 
was just going to scramble out on to the bank when 
my brain began to work, and I swam slowly along 
instead. You see, just then I was in a devil of a 
mess. I’d spent a lot of money, and though I’d kept 
the credit of the firm good, I knew that the business 
was bust, and the one thing I was anxious about was 
to get off to America without being stopped. I’ve 
explained this all to Beatrice, and why I didn’t send 
for her before. Anyway, I swam along until I met 
with an old barge. I climbed in and got two of the 
choicest blackguards you ever saw to let me spend 
an hour or two in their filthy cabin and to keep their 
mouths closed about it. Fortunately, I had another 
pocketbook, with sufficient to satisfy them and keep 
me going. Then I borrowed some clothes and came 
out to America, steerage. I had no difficulty in get- 
ting my money, as I had a couple of pals in Lynn 
whom [I had fixed things up with before I started. 
They came and identified me as Merton Ware, and 
we all three started in business together as the Ford 
Boot and Shoe Manufacturing Company at Lynn in 
Massachusetts. Incidentally, we’ve done all right. 
Heaps more, of course, but that’s the pith of it. As 
for the body that was fished out of the canal, if you 
make enquiries, you’ll find there was a tramp missing, 
a month or so before.” 


304 THE CINEMA MURDER 


Elizabeth had begun to sob quietly. Philip, who 
was holding her tenderly in his arms, whispered un- 
heard things into her ears. It was Beatrice who re- 
mained in charge of the situation. 

“So now, Mr. Dane,” she jeered, “ what about 
your little errand? I hope this will be a lesson to 
you not to come meddling in other people’s affairs.” 

Dane turned to the man who had brought this 
bombshell into their midst. 

** Do you swear that you are Douglas Romilly? ” 
he asked. ) 

“TJ not only swear it but I can prove it, if you'll 
come along with me to Murray’s,” he answered. 
“My partner’s there, waiting supper, and another 
man who has known me all his life.” 

The detective glanced interrogatively towards 
Philip. 

“ That is my cousin, Douglas Romilly,” the latter 
pronounced. 

Dane took up his hat. 

“Mr. Merton Ware,” he said, “or Mr. Philip 
Romilly, whichever you may in future elect to call 
yourself, you may not believe it, but the end of this 
affairs is an immense relief to me. I offer you my 
heartiest congratulations. You need fear no more 
annoyance. Good night!” 

He passed out. They heard the sound of his foot- 
steps and his companion’s, as they crossed the corri- 
dor and rang for the lift. Speech was a little diffi- 
cult. It was still Beatrice who imposed conviction 
upon them. 

“TI was seated in the box,” she explained, ° when 
Philip went round to see you, Elizabeth. I had 


THE CINEMA MURDER 305 


been looking down into the stalls to find Martha, and 
all of a sudden I saw Douglas there. He, too, was 
staring at me. Of course, I thought it was: some 
extraordinary likeness, but, whilst I was clutching 
at the curtain, he stood up and waved his hand. 
You should have seen me tear from the box! You 
know, ever since they showed me that signature at 
the bank I have had a queer idea at the back of my 
head. Luckily for him,” she went, patting his arm, 
“he sent home for me a fortnight ago, and sent a 
draft for my expenses out. You won’t mind, will 
you, if I take him off now? ” she concluded, turning 
to Elizabeth. ‘‘ They are waiting supper for us, but 
I wasn’t going to let Philip —” 

** Did you know that Dane was going to be here? ” 
Elizabeth asked. | 

** Not an idea,” Beatrice declared. “I simply 
dragged Douglas along here, as soon as we’d talked 
things out, because I knew that it would be the one 
thing wanting to complete Philip’s happiness. We'll 
leave you now. Douglas will bring me back, and we 
are going to be married in a few days.” 

Philip held out his hand a little diffidently. 

** You wouldn’t —” 

“My dear fellow,” Douglas interrupted, grasping 
it, “* wouldn’t I! I’m thundering sorry for all you’ve 
been through. I suppose I ought to have let you 
know that I was still in the land of the living, but I 
was waiting until things blew over in England. 
That’s all right now, though,” he went on. “I’ve 
turned over a new leaf and I am making money — 
making it after a style they don’t understand in Eng- 
land. I am going to pay my creditors twenty shil- 


306 THE CINEMA MURDER 


lings in the pound before a couple of years have 
gone, and do pretty well for Beatrice and myself as 
well. You wouldn’t care, I suppose,” he added, as 
they stood there with locked hands, “ to offer us just 
a glass of wine before we start out? Beatrice has 
been riddling me with questions and dragging me 
through the streets till I scarcely know whether I am 
on my head or my heels.” 

Philip emptied the contents of the champagne bot- 
tle into the glasses. Never was wine poured out 
more gladly. 

“* Douglas,” he explained, “ this is Miss Elizabeth 
Dalstan, whom you saw act this evening. We were 
married this afternoon. You can understand, can’t 
you, just what your coming has meant for us? ” 

Douglas shook Elizabeth by the hand. ‘Then he 
held up his glass. 

*“‘Here’s the best of luck to you both!” he said 
heartily. ‘* Very soon Beatrice and I will ask you ta 
wish us the same. Philip, old chap,” he added, as 
he set his glass down and without the slightest pro- 
test watched it replenished, “ that’s a thundering 
good play of vours I’ve seen this evening, but you'll 
never write one to beat this!” 


Soon Beatrice and Douglas also took their de- 
parture. Elizabeth held out her arms almost as the 
door closed. The tear-stains were still on her 
cheeks. Her lips quivered a little, but her voice was 
clear and sweet and passionate. 

“ Philip,” she cried, “it’s all over —it’s all fin- 
ished with — the dread, the awful days! I am not 
going to be hysterical any more, and you — you are 


THE CINEMA MURDER 307 


just going to remember that we have everything we 


want in the world. Sit down opposite to me, if you 
please, and fill my glass. I have only one emotion 
left. I am hungry — desperately hungry. Move 
your chair nearer so that I can reach your hand. 
_ There! Now you and I will drink our little toast.” 

It was an hour before they thought of leaving the 
table. A very perplexed waiter brought them coffee 
and watched them light cigarettes. Then the tele- 
phone bell rang. They both stared at the instru- 
ment. Philip would have taken off the receiver, but 
Elizabeth held out her hand. 

‘*T have an idea,” she said. “I believe it is from 
Sylvanus Power. Let me answer it.” 

She held the receiver to her ear and listened. 

“Yes?” she murmured. “Yes? ... At what 
time? ” 

Her face grew more puzzled. She listened for a 
moment longer. 

“‘ But, Sylvanus,” she expostulated, “ what do you 
mean? ... Sylvanus? ... Mr. Power?” 

The telephone had become a dumb thing. She re- 
placed the receiver. 

“TI don’t understand,” she told Philip. ‘ All that 
he said was —‘ You will receive my present at five 
o’clock this morning!’” 

“Does he think we are going to sit up for it?” 
Philip asked. 

‘“‘ He is the strangest man,” she sighed. .. . 


After all, some queer fancy awoke Philip at a lit- 
tle before five that morning and drew him to the win- 
dow. He sat looking out over the still sleeping 


308 THE CINEMA MURDER 


city. All sound now was hushed. It was the brief 
breathing space before the dawn. In the clear 
morning spring light, the buildings of the city seemed 
to stand out with a new and marvellous distinct- 
ness. Now and then from the harbour came the 
shriek of a siren. A few pale lights were still burn- 
ing along the river way. From one of the city 
clocks the hour was slowly tolled. Philip counted 
the strokes — one, two, three, four, five. Then, al- 
most as he was preparing to leave his post, there 
came a terrific roar. The window against which he 
leaned shook. Some of the buildings in the distance 
trembled. One, with its familiar white cupola, 
seemed for a moment to be lifted from the ground 
and then split through by some unseen hand. The 
roar of the explosion was followed by the crashing 


of falling masonry. Long fingers of fire suddenly 


leapt up into the quiet, cool air. Fragments of ma- 
sonry, a portion, even, of that wonderful cupola, 
came crasning down into the street. He heard Eliz- 
abeth’s voice behind him, felt her fingers upon his 
shoulder. 

“ What is it? Philip, what is it? ” 

He pointed with steady finger. ‘The truth seemed 
to come to him by inspiration. 

“It is Sylvanus Power’s message to you,” he re- 
plied. ‘“ The theatre!” 

There were flames now, leaping up to the sky. 
Together they watched them and listened to the 
shrieking of sirens and whistles as the fire engines 
galloped by from every section of the city. ‘There 
was a strange look in Elizabeth’s face as she watched 
the curling flames. 


ae 


THE CINEMA MURDER 309 


* Philip,” she whispered, “ thank God! There it 
goes, all his great offering to me! It’s like the man 
and his motto ——* A man may do what he will with 
his own.” Only last night I felt as though I would 
give anything in the world never to stand upon the 
stage of that theatre again. He doesn’t know it, 
Philip, but his is a precious gift.” 

He passed his arm around her and drew her from 
the window. 

“¢¢ A man may do what he will with his own,’ ” he 
repeated. ‘ Well, it isn’t such a bad motto. Syl- 
vanus Power may destroy a million-dollar theatre 
for a whim, but so far as you and I are con- 
cerned —” 

She sighed with content. 

“We do both need a holiday,” she murmured. 
% Somewhere in Europe, I think.” 


THE BND 


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Loudon from Laramie. Joseph B. Ames. 

Luck of the Kid, The. Ridgwell Cullum. 

Lucky in Love. Berta Ruck. 

Lucretia Lombard. Kathleen Norris. 

Lydia of the Pines. Honore Willsie. 

Lynch Lawyers. William Patterson White, 


Madame Claire. Susan Ertz. 


THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION 


Major, The. Ralph Connor. 

Man and Maid. Elinor Glyn. 

Man from Bar-20, The. Clarence E. Mulford. 
Man from El Paso, The. W. D. Hoffman. 

Man from Smiling Pass, The. Eliot H. Robinson. 
Man They Couldn’t Arrest, The. Austin J. Small. 
Man They Hanged, The. Robert W. Chambers. 
Mare Nostrum (Our Sea). Vicente Blasco Ibanez, 
Martin Conisby’s Vengeance. Jeffery Farnol. 
Mary-’Gusta. Joseph C. Lincoln. 

Master of Man. Hall Caine. 
Master of the Microbe, The. Robert W. Service. 
Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. A. Conan Doyle. 
Men Marooned. George Marsh. 

Michael’s Evil Deeds. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
Mine With the Iron Door. Harold Bell Wright. 
Mind of a Minx, The. Berta Ruck. 

Miracle. Clarence B. Kelland. 

Mischief Maker, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
Miss Blake’s Husband. Elizabeth Jordan. 
Money, Love and Kate. Eleanor H. Potter. 
Money Moon, The. Jeffery Farnol. 

More Tish. Marv Roberts Rinehart. 

Mr. and Mrs. Sen. Louise Jordan Miln. 

Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo. E. Phillips Oppenheim, 
Mr. Pratt. Joseph C. Lincoln. 

Mr. Pratt’s Patients. Joseph C. Lincoln. 

Mr. Wu. Louise Jordan Miln. 

Mrs. Red Pepper. Grace S. Richmond. 

My Best Girl. Kathleen Norris. 

My Lady of the North. Randall Parrish. 

My Lady of the South. Randall Parrish. 
Mystery of the Sycamore. Carolyn Wells. 
Mystery Road, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 


Ne’er-Do-Well, The. Rex Beach. 

Net, The. Rex Beach. 

Night Hawk. Arthur Stringer. 

Night Horseman, The. Max Brand. 
Night Operator, The, Frank L. Packard. 
Nina. Susan Ertz. 

No. 17. J. Jefferson Fairjeon. 

Nobody’s Man. E. Phillips Oppenheim. 
No Defence. Gilbert Parker, 

North. James B. Hendryx. 


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